Way of The Arctic Fist [Rukia/Mirja]

Rukia's expression was somber as she began unlocking the tightly sealed vault that contained every memory she had ever had. The key turned in the lock, and the gears began to turn, drawing back the multilayered iron segments that locked away and separated her memories from Rukia's regular thought processes.

The room in which the noble woman's memories were stored was vast, organized by rows of shelves, 40 meters high, in which her memories were sealed inside labeled glass phials, with cork stoppers in the top; occluded with dust. The air was stale, like that of a room that hadn't been touched in centuries, and smelled of deteriorating parchment. Rukia stepped into the room, her waraji clad feet echoing her footsteps each time she moved, violet orbs cast ahead, scanning the rows of phials for each memory she would try.

Rukia located the first — the phial's contents swirling, attempting to climb the glass, in a mist of red — and she extended her hand to free the phial from its velvet covered cushion; this was the memory of the woman's adoption, and life prior to it in Hanging Dog.

She continued making her way through the great, echoing hall, her pace slow so she could search the shelves thoroughly. She paused as her eyes fell upon a phial with a brilliant, black, glittering cloud inside of it, as if it were encrusted with black diamonds that reflected the light in its many facets; the phial's contents was the memory of when Ichigo had rescued her from her rumored fate — her execution by Sōkyoku.

She scooped up the second phial and held it securely in her pallid hands, where she then pursed her lips, releasing a stream of concentrated breath in order to blow the dust that dirtied the glass vessel. Turning on her heel, Rukia ventured back to the thick, bolted iron door of the vault, crossing the threshold once more as the vault sealed shut behind her; the gears screaming in protest as they rotated, which the Shinigami duly noted was from the vault not being opened for nearly 400 years.

The room that surrounded Rukia was familiar, for it was almost identical to the root cellar of the Kuchiki Manor, sans the various array of bottled wines, sakes, and pickled vegetables, that is. At the end of the stone-walled room was a staircase, no doubt the very same staircase that lead to the groundfloor of the Manor. Her feet carried her autonomously to it, and then began her ascent; climbing the wooden stairs that were usually occupied by the servants, the wood creaking beneath Rukia's meager weight.

At the top of the stairs, Rukia kicked off her waraji, and padded down the wood floored corridor with her bare feet. It was strange seeing the Manor vacated like this, but Rukia was in the depths of her mind, after all. She headed to the east wing of the compound, where her room was located, though she was stopped short as she rounded the corner that lead to the hallway containing the door to her room — the hallway had been sealed off, and replaced by a magnificent arch-way, through which Rukia's dazzling amethyst irises could see a room whose floor was cushioned and completely covered by a plush futon, and loaded with large pillows — richly colored tapestries draped from the ceiling, dancing in a whirl of oranges, yellows, and reds, like a sunset.

She crossed over the threshold, and leading herself into the dead center of the room, where she then collapsed, folding her legs beneath her, to take on a sitting position. Her hands trembled for a moment as Rukia collected herself — this was it. The moment of truth. The noblewoman fumbled with uncorking the phial that contained the memory of her adoption; the cork was sealed shut, and had no intention of opening anytime soon. Perhaps the fates were telling her that the swirling red haze of a memory wasn't strong enough, or the memory that spoke to her soul.

The second phial, however, was uncorked with ease. Rukia had to barely apply any force as she withdrew the cork, the thick, concentrated memory ebbing from its container like steam rising from boiling water; and the room around her began to fog as she was overtaken by the memory that she had just released.

It was the day of her execution. The sunlight burned into Rukia's skin with a silent fury — angered by the crime she had committed. Her thoughts drifted to Kaien-dono's death, and she reflected upon the role she had played in it; feeling unworthy of any sort of rescue that Ichigo had in mind after the stunt he had pulled against Byakuya the day before. Her heart was at peace, and she had no regrets. This was it; the end of her 150 year life. She closed her eyes, awaiting for the pain that would be accompanied by the Sokyoku's blow, but it never came. Her heavy, exhaustion shadowed eyelids fluttered open, to be greeted by a familiar scowl, in all its unruly glory. It was Ichigo, and he had once again come to save her.

Rukia's Reiatsu howled, its icy fury awakened, and increasing steadily as she was roused from her memory, her mind going completely still as a response from the memory that had just played in her mind like a silent film. Her breathing was calm, and unlabored, as her eyes flitted open, her eyelashes quivering as her paper thin lids retreated, revealing her magnificent jeweled amethyst orbs — her pupils narrowed to cat-like slits in unbreakable focus, and concentration. Rukia's soul had been awakened.