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* * * Lessons Learnt, Examples Made
* * * They knew the kanji for important things -- water, food, warning. It was enough to get by on. It was Rukia who strode into their midst one day, bearing paper, ink and an old brush filched from some unsuspecting poor scholar, and declaring that it was time they learnt how to write. "But why?" one of them said before Renji could think up something sufficiently withering to say about the depthless folly of the idea. "I'm sick of hanging out with idiots who can't write anything except their names," said Rukia. "At least I know my own name! That's better than knowing how to write everything except your name," snapped Renji, though as a matter of fact he wasn't sure if it was. Rukia gave him her Irritating Look #315 -- 'You aren't worth arguing with, and anyway everyone's on my side' -- and rolled the paper out, weighting it with a rock and a knee. The other boys crowded around her -- it was true, they always were on her side, the morons. Renji folded his arms and turned away, trying to block out the admiring voices through sheer force of will. "When did you learn to write, Rukia?" "Did you teach yourself?" "A man taught me. No, you don't do it like that. You start with this line first, see -- " "A man taught you?" The voice was full of surprise. The children viewed all adults as their natural enemies. "Why'd he do that?" "Because he couldn't stand living with stupid people who couldn't even write either," said Rukia pointedly. Renji stiffened, and then cursed himself for showing that it had connected. He could practically feel Rukia's smug grin. You didn't ask where people had come from in Rukongai. Sometimes they'd tell you anyway, but if you had to ask, you probably didn't want to know the answer. Rukia had never mentioned what she'd done or where she'd lived before she met them. Still, this was too tempting a hint to ignore. "You were living with him, Rukia?" "Why don't you live with him anymore?" Anxiously, because it was all too easy to imagine Rukia being snatched away from them by some mysterious stranger: "Is he still around?" "He kicked me out," said Rukia. "I got too old." Her voice was no different, but Renji turned around anyway, moved by an instinct he couldn't explain. Rukia was bending over the paper, brush in one ink-stained hand, carefully tracing out the shape of a word. She looked as calm as ever. "Who was this man, Rukia?" said a voice. Renji was vaguely surprised to realise that it was his. Rukia looked up casually -- too casually, which meant that he shouldn't have asked, which meant that it was right that he had. He took a step closer to her and the others, who huddled around her silently, afraid and only half-comprehending. "Change your mind, Renji?" said Rukia sweetly. "I can teach you the kanji for 'idiot'. Then you'll know two ways to write your name." "Who is he, Rukia?" said Renji. Then she changed -- not Rukia any longer, or Rukia, but as they rarely ever saw her. Rukia as she was to strangers, to adults, to people she considered below her -- ice-cold and as aloof as the shinigami they sometimes saw from afar in the streets. Alien. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Then you can tell us, can't you?" said Renji. Rukia looked at him, her eyes blank, lips curled slightly in contempt. The others stirred in discomfort. "Renji ... " "Shut up," snarled Renji. That woke Rukia up: her face flashed into anger, alive again and familiar. "Don't tell him to shut up!" "Don't tell me what to do!" Renji shouted. "Who was this guy, Rukia?" "It's none of your business!" The knuckles on the hand holding the brush showed white for a moment, then Rukia breathed out and knelt again. "I tell you, it doesn't matter," she said. Her head was bowed, as if she was tired. "He doesn't matter anymore." There was a wall there, things locked against him -- things he didn't get to be told, places he wasn't allowed to go. He would have pushed, but Rukia was looking at him as if preparing herself for a blow, too proud to ask him to back down. It was a look that expected no mercy. He let it go. "Bet you can't write 'fuck'," he said. A relieved titter arose; the crisis was over. Rukia glared at him. "Watch me!" * * * She had taught him to accept defeat, Rukia thought later, much later, pressing a hand against white stone to feel the punishing drain of it, as though she could wipe herself away if she only pressed hard enough. She had taught him to anticipate failure, court it like a lover, and this was as heavy a sin as any other.
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