seen from Vietnam
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Austria
seen from Jamaica
seen from Russia
seen from Germany
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from United States
a heavy tongue of iron sits well in his mouth,
exiting but to flicker across shapely plump lips of an inky depth.
it moves, but it does not speak.
abnormality abounds. interest falters.
he does not care for these particular intangible entities.
the nocturnal promenade of death through the shifting vortexes that make up las noches continues, as has been for decades upon half centuries.
oft does he not sleep if it is not necessary,
choosing instead to walk free of encounters with the other ten, tucked away in their towers and alcoves,
much less the privaron. it is but a nuisance for them to see him and address him with such fervour, crying ulquiorra-sama ! as though he pays them any mind.
but rather than the mysteries of the halls, he seeks that of the throne.
how grand and imposing it is,
meeting his gaze as he does not approach from his place at the very entrance.
a crack of light from the ajar doors casts a stream and single line down his figure and onto smooth stone.
he wondered, once, what it was like to seat himself upon it.
but it was not meant for him.
it would kill him if he as much lay a hand to steady himself.
a sinner is in the court of the lord.
honeyed tongue comes once more, with no good intentions.
it is, somehow ironically, good,
that he is one in the same.
he cannot decipher this one's motives in its constant approach.
nameless, and faceless. no bona fide identity.
there is substance to it, and it compliments the infinite nothingness.
it was not often that three and four meddled;
a thin, undescribed rift that is neither rivalry nor general mislike. four has never been given reason to doubt or abhor her, but perhaps it is their own silence that creates such an empty space, unable to fill pockets in the air where others would put petty small talk.
"harribel-san."
his most common greeting,
if it could be said common is the correct descriptor for their off chance meetings.
how many times must he endure such a thing;
the passing of one so vulgar, an itch in the perfect network of sense and thought, the heavy breadth of annoyance laid over his shoulders.
it is simple, the act of walking past one another in the tight space of the halls of a city so grandiose, even with one blue spirited spitfire. but it is the edge of a trailing coattail that gently graces the figure now behind him, that forces footwear skidding across the sleek floor.
he pauses.
it is disgusting, the sensation of four's coat having touched, even so slightly, six.
"-- --aizen-sama."
a request for private audience, no doubt.
the smog of a freshly lit cigarette fills the small office space;
with smoke scented papers and a coat's collar shrugged on over the expanse of a perfectly altered suit, nothing is out of place in the neat realms of his workspace.
[ knknknock k--knock. ]
the corners of a paper are met exactly with its pile.
the cigarette bobs between thin lips.
"hereinkommen."
