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No one prays to the goddess of Death anymore; not unless they're telling her to go away. Rukia would find it amusing, given that the selfish gods to whom they pray would never care to listen to the most ardent of requests; she was to meet multitudes in singularity, in thousands of places she had seen before.
She doesn't remember being born – but then, who does? – though she does remember the loneliness of being an Earth dweller. Her brother, the Master, has called her Lucia. Rukia. Nahara. Light.
It was the death of a star that burnt the brightest, wasn't it? Death was a new beginning, even before humans knew what to do with it.
Before they learnt to fear her.
*
Clad in white, Rukia would cradle babies to her chest after their mothers would hand them to her, with their eyes haunted and still bright with tears. While she has never been a fan of showing herself to mortals, not in the way the young gods of the newer pantheons would eventually do, Rukia always allowed the grieving mothers to see her; a tiny girl with dark hair and wide eyes, a white kimono that faded into nothingness. It took a mother to know the pain of a mother, an eternal child to be entrusted so completely with their child.
The death of an infant was always the start of a tragedy in one heart or another, but those, Rukia could understand. Instead, it was the violence that forced her to walk among men in armor. Rukia was untouchable, but the armor had helped her to blend in. She was no warrior; there was more honour to being a reaper than drawing blood. A complete disregard for the gift they had been given.
Covered in blood and the thrill of the battle, to the combatants, Rukia was vengeance and fury alike.
Still, there is no kindness in the world that she would not grant: relief to the wounded and rest for the wicked.
Reluctant, Rukia would admit that the Greeks had been some of her favourites, as pointless as their wars – all wars – always tended to be. Entertaining even, and their god of death, Thanatos, was present in spirit only, a crown of poppies tangled in his hair. Rukia did not mind lending a helping hand; plenty of young deities have risen, though she was not their leader, nor their mother. More like an eternal sister; she would live on, as they would start to fade away with the cultures that gave them life.
The Greeks were beautifully imaginative in the way they asked their questions about the universe. Oftentimes, in the Elysian fields they liked to dwell in before meeting a new beginning, they asked Rukia things she could not tell them. How to explain colour to a person who had never had the gift of sight?
The Greeks, Rukia conceded, were her favourites because they made their gods human too; flawed with their own mortal flaws. Their tales, when not horrifically violent to helpless women, as told by insecure men, spoke of wonder.
People did not need to believe in Rukia, in order for her to exist; she was not born out of their minds, out of their fear. But if Byakuya had spoken to her about the single law of the universe that even she was subjected to, was the law of the ultimate balance – the conservation of mass, they would call it, after centuries of trial and error, and they would still be not quite right. The law of the ultimate balance, spoke of an equal push to every pull, perceived or otherwise.
Before the bloody "glory" of the Hellenes, Rukia had never spoken to him – the one who received all the prayers she heard while holding the wounded in her lap, just in passing. Death is peaceful in times of peace, while birth had always been a battle. She lived to hear stories about all things exciting, before everything turned into the dust she came to collect.
Rukia knew that he was a man, though that distinction did not mean much to either of them. Their bodies bent to their will, and as such, obsessing over human trivialities as gender held no worth. She also knew that his hair echoed dawn; Rukia had been dressed in fine silk, staring out the window as the sun started rising, when she had first asked herself if it was some kind of symbolism for the birth of a new day.
Or maybe it was just like that. Some things were not worth looking into too deeply.
The man had been carrying a small beacon of light between his fingers, in the same direction Rukia had felt the strong pull of an imminent death.
A woman killing her insolent husband, about to carry his child.
Rukia had felt her blood about to boil. Justice was a matter of subjectivity, of course, but not even he could be so absurd as to condemn this woman. Rukia was just about to open her mouth, but then he shook his head, and pinched the little light between his thumb and index, until it was gone. As Rukia could be cruel, and refuse to take those who deserved pain in order to repent, it seemed that this strange man could be kind too.
He turned to leave, undoubtedly called elsewhere, but Rukia had said something – ironically, she could not recall exactly what she said. Time for the truly immortal passed differently. He just scowled, although it seemed to be more his usual demeanor, than anything meant to be aimed at her. Still, after a moment's consideration, he smiled at her, small and awkward in the way of someone who didn't smile often.
The one who protects
Their names, in every language of the earth, would be the same. Protector. It could have been so easy to be confused, but how could she be, after witnessing his actions?
Life, Rukia decided, was neither a gift to be given, nor a prize to take away.
*
They had met again, of course; violence seemed to always bring them together, to healers' tents and iron cages, ships at sea and overcrowded prisons. Most of the time, brief, acknowledging glances were exchanged just like in the beginning, when they had been strangers.
They knew each other's names now, though, so they were far from it still.
When they allowed themselves the time to talk, he told her stories, about humans and stars and dust and others like them ; Rukia knew of them, and even got to talk to those whose fates were intrinsically tied to hers. Morality, Justice, Love, all of them gods of concepts that existed without being justified.
The dismissal of an idea, of a love that had once burnt brightly, brought Renji and Rangiku to Rukia, a silent acknowledgement turned camaraderie, turned friendship.
Still, the Life to her Death, the storyteller, was an awfully shy being, speaking in short sentences. It left Rukia wondering, when did he ever get the time to see all this? He didn't know any of them well, he said.
It then dawned on her that, while Rukia was, in a looser sense, responsible for the end of many things, he was only overseeing the spark he had been given to share. He never knew what happened to the people from his stories.
"Don't you ever get lonely?" she asked. In human form, her voice didn't carry its godly resonance.
He shrugged.
"Just sometimes, when there's too many people."
*
As a human, however temporary, Rukia could touch those whose hearts were still beating without a second thought.
Naturally, she had found herself in the embrace of many lovers, over the course of time – rarely, Rukia even found herself in love; as wicked as Rangiku's grin always was, they were both glad that they could talk freely, unrestricted by the necessity to be useful somewhere else.
He, the lover of beginnings, seemed to always be there for a split second, distinguished by the flash of orange. Rukia knew he was, just as she had stood witness to his heart breaking.
Hearts mend, though; especially when they moved through time and space like floating in never-ending ether. To Rukia's bellicose form, Ichigo preferred more scholastic ways to express grief; to question.
Why would deities be able to feel, if not to go insane with the lack of it?
*
They never touched.
In the darkest hours, hidden among nebulas and the dwarf stars shining in Rukia's eyes, the meteor showers of Ichigo's philosophies, they never touched. Veil-covered hands, reaching for absolution, reached for him, banishing her. Galaxies away, and they couldn't be any nearer.
The end of the beginning. Beloved beginning of the end.
And if they did?
Everything, everything – everything, turned into a memory of sound.