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Jun 29

Lion and the Lamb Chapter Five: The Shopkeeper

You can alternatively read this on AO3 here.

Word Count: 5.7K

Warnings: explicit language, angst, very vague depiction of rape, some reference of prostitution (very minimal)

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As the beautiful merchant led you behind the counter, down a corridor as dark and shady as the rest of the place, you stayed near to Grimmjow, so near you almost tripped over your own feet several times trying to keep up with him while simultaneously avoiding stepping on the back of his feet. When you had treaded on his step once by accident, he threw a deadly glare at you over his shoulder, one that had you shrinking back and muttering a quiet, “sorry.” It was perhaps the most convincing hostage act the two of you had put on without intending to.

The corridor met its end, halted before a dilapidated, wooden door. You held your breath as the merchant reached into her skirts with a wicked grin, fishing out a small ring of keys. Tension spread through your chest and back, all the way up your spine and into your skull as you considered shielding your eyes from whatever it was you may have been walking into. Instead, you resigned yourself to watching Grimmjow, searching his face for any similar signs of apprehension as she pushed the door open with a loud creak, unveiling your awaiting doom.

The ‘doom’ was as dark, quiet, and empty, as the corridor that led here. No shady men or naked women, no signs of any crude figures or disturbances at all really. Though mostly shrouded in shadows, it appeared as normal as any cottage or small living space. As your eyes adjusted, you began to make out the usual furnishings that made up any living space — tables, chairs, teacups, a bowl of fruit.

You waited with Grimmjow at the door, cautiously observing the merchant as she hurried to gather and light various lanterns and candles inside. “Forgive the darkness. I don’t know where he’s gone off to,” she said ambiguously.

She flitted about the space, illuminating the nooks and crannies and leaving you to wonder who ‘he’ was and why there were no windows. Again, you found yourself staring at Grimmjow, wondering too what was going on in his head, what he would do or say next, if he thought of you like you thought of him.

“KISUKE?!?!?” Her shout made you jump out of your own mind, surprised to hear the name coming from her mouth so loudly and impatiently when she had previously been nothing but calm and easygoing. The sudden shift had unsettling feelings blooming inside of you again.

And for whatever reason, Grimmjow decided then was the time to breach the space, comforted by her display of aggression rather than disturbed. He tugged you forward with him, obliviously toppling your legs where they had been stiffly rooted to the floor. He didn’t seem to notice you struggling to right yourself again as he stomped forward like he owned the place.

“This had better not be a waste of my time,” he barked at the merchant impatiently.

Again and again, she met his aggressive behavior with foxy smiles and glinting eyes, peering over her shoulder at him unperturbed and if anything, amused. “You two must be hungry. I’ll fix you something to eat.”

The relaxedness with which she met his short fuse served only to anger him further. Each time her eyes twinkled with mischief, his seemed to reflect that light back, igniting with fury.

“I’m not eating fuck all, and I’m not screwing around!” Grimmjow raised his voice, pulling you further into the candlelit space with him. “Where is this shopkeeper?” He demanded to know. “Is there work for us or not?!”

You found it difficult to continue to play the hostage, to hold your tongue while he lashed out at her. Although your opinion on his behavior wouldn't have mattered either way, hostage or not. Grimmjow would have disregarded your voice all the same, too blinded by his seemingly uncontrollable temper to see reason.

“How curious…” the woman chuckled to herself, the humor lost on both you and Grimmjow. Sharpened eyes looked him up and down. “You are so like him…”

Before you could wonder more and he could question what she meant by her remark, the sound of a door creaking open, followed by slow, approaching footsteps, jolted everyone in the room from their train of thought. You instinctively shuffled closer to Grimmjow’s side, waiting, anticipating, watching the shadows for the suspenseful arrival of the owner of the footsteps. Even Grimmjow had the sense to be on guard, one fist clenching around your rope, and the other, twitching towards his sword.

Wherever the mysterious figure came from seemed dreadfully long and distant. The steps crept closer at an agonizing pace, each second marked by a new goosebump rising on the back of your neck, down the length of your arms. After an eternity, the lurker emerged from the shadows, a tattered, green hat shielding his eyes, worn, green cloth and robes hiding the shape of his limbs.

You gasped and stumbled back towards the door at the familiar sight of him. Grimmjow’s neck snapped towards you, his features scrunched up with their usual crinkles of impatience, but with an underlying flash of alarm as well this time.

“Well, well, I see we have guests,” the green man chuckled casually, as cool and calm as the woman who led you to him.

No matter how Grimmjow tugged your rope to keep you level, or how his angry, blue eyes silently questioned and warned simultaneously, your blood ran cold while your eyes remained on the man draped in green. You couldn’t look away, frozen in terror, as if you turned for a moment he’d vanish elsewhere, leaving you vulnerable.

“Welcome.” He lifted his head, revealing his eyes, burning back into yours while he grinned knowingly.

Grimmjow reluctantly tore his gaze from you, straightening, raising his chin proudly in the face of this stranger. “This is him?” He snorted to the lady merchant. “The shopkeeper?”

The way the man smiled amusedly in response only added to your assumptions and fears about him, how there had to be more than what met the eye. His muscled chest still poked out from beneath his baggy clothing, and you worried over what else the oversized fabric hid. Of course, Grimmjow held no such fear or anxieties, walking the earth as if he were the biggest and baddest to roam it. The lion. The king.

“Tis I.” The man strolled forward into the light, his movements and mannerisms fluid, and languid, cool and confident as an old, wise and pampered king, though he looked none of the sort. “And shall I call you Sir Knight? Or perhaps…former Sir?” He teased your knight with a shit-eating grin.

And of course, no jest, no matter how innocent or insignificant, greeted the lion without igniting a fire. His pride swelled and his eyes went wide with disbelief, as if the words had been a physical strike against his glamorous armor. You inadvertently scuffled forward as Grimmjow’s body tensed, your rope clenched in his fist moving with him.

“Why don’t we skip to the bit here?” Grimmjow growled through clenched teeth. “Why am I down here?” He eyed the man challengingly, a silent threat gleaming there.

The man looked lazily between the pair of you, his eyes lingering on yours, long enough to make you squirm, before they addressed Grimmjow again. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Perhaps we can help each other.”

His vague words finally made you look away, snapping towards Grimmjow with a pleading, panicked look. And for the first time, Grimmjow glanced over at you, regarding you not as the hostage you were meant to pretend to be, but as whatever you were to him - the poor, weak maiden he got stuck with, the damsel in distress, the lamb, the sheath.

Or…someone he cares about?

Grimmjow looked away, making himself taller and grabbing ahold of his hilt as he placed himself between you and the man. “And what exactly is it that I have that you want?”

At the same time that the man chuckled, at the words Grimmjow said or at the sudden protectiveness of his stance, you didn't know, the lady merchant reappeared with a tray of teacups. So focused on keeping a close watch on the shopkeeper, you hardly registered her absence, her moving about the candlelit space putting gods know what in those cups.

“You ought to stop being so vague with them, Kisuke,” she chided the man with an amused grin, leaving you with a plethora of questions about the intricacies of their relationship. “Can’t you see he is worried for his lady?”

“She’s not my lady!” Grimmjow exploded, tugging you forward on the rope for good measure.

This time, you didn't have time to catch yourself, unceremoniously knocking into Grimmjow’s armored body and toppling down to your knees. Pain radiated through them at the impact of the fall, and at the position you held to stay upright. It was that pain, and the humiliation at being downed in front of everyone, that had heat coursing through your face and flames emanating from your eyes.

You directed that fiery glare towards Grimmjow after he reluctantly moved to pull you up. “Don’t bother,” you snapped under your breath at him, struggling to your feet on your own as shame and embarrassment continued to burn in your cheeks.

“What was that?” He demanded quietly, through gritted teeth.

The merchant put her hand up as a notion to silence the both of you. “Let me save you two the trouble of your act. You must be thinking we run a brothel,” she glanced between the pair of you, observing, “am I right?”

Neither of you responded, holding your cards close to your chests. You glowered at the side of Grimmjow’s head, wondering if he had some sort of clipped response to fire back, but he too remained resolutely silent.

“Right then,” she continued, unperturbed. “I understand how it looks, believe me.” The corner of her mouth twitched upward. “What’s a beauty like me doing in a rotten hovel like this?” She directed a wink at you as she said it, as if she could hear everything that went on in your mind.

Your glower softened, jaw tightening and gaze averting as the shopkeeper, Kisuke, chimed in with, “it’s not that bad, is it?”

The merchant, whose name you still had yet to discover, ignored him, lifting two steaming cups of tea from her tray. “Well, I can assure you we haven't lost our honor yet.” She moved towards the two of you, proud and unafraid. “Tea?”

You looked into the swirling contents of the cup, half-expecting to find something startling, but it only looked like regular tea. But you knew all too well, looks could be deceiving.

Grimmjow snapped at her offering. “I’m not drinking or eating anything until you bastards tell me what the hell you’re on about!”

Kisuke and his merchant exchanged an amused look. She moved to set the cups back where they were, unbothered by your hesitance to drink them.

“What an impressive temper.” The shopkeeper wore his jester-like smile, the smile that had you squirming where you stood, the smile like he knew something you didn't, something that gave him the upper hand.

“Remind you of someone?” The merchant asked him with a snicker.

“It certainly does.”

They chuckled together like clucking hens. You dared a glance at the lion and saw a vein in his forehead ready to burst and eyes wild with primal rage — a predator prepared to pounce on its prey.

“That does it!”

You flinched away instinctively at the scraping sound of his sword coming out of its sheath. However, as Grimmjow sliced his weapon through the air, brandishing it at his side, you seemed to be the only alarmed individual in that room.

“Oh, dear,” the shopkeeper spoke as if he were dealing with nothing but a petulant child. “We’ve done it now.”

“What a pretty blade.” The merchant’s eyes lit up with wonder. “Hueco steel, yes?” She asked your lion, taking a foolishly-brave and curious step closer.

Grimmjow twitched. “Why don't I shove it through your eye to give you a better look?”

You gasped at his words, and at the same time, the merchant laughed. “Ha ha! That’s good!”

“I've gone and gotten myself in trouble again, haven't I?” Kisuke continued to laugh with her.

They cackled boisterously, in on some joke that you and Grimmjow were not. It made your skin crawl, their casualness and amusement in the face of something as daunting as your knight’s unrelenting temper. They worried not of the sharpness of his blade, or how he stood tall and muscular, adorned in some of the finest armor in your realm. No, they did not worry, and they did not respect the pair of you either.

It reminded you of the way the noble men and women treated you in Hueco Mundo, of the way the men laughed each time you dared to utter a word in front of them, or the way the women looked down their noses at you. The sadness you felt never truly left you, always waiting inside to be awakened by another instance of being treated as less — an outsider, a loner, a pitiful little lamb in a room full of lions and lionesses.

In the way that their laughter was contagious to one another, you felt yourself coming down with a case of Grimmjow’s anger. As your lion stood stunned, likely trying to decide who or what to take a swing at first, you gnashed your teeth and clenched your fists, a fire burning in your chest and behind your eyes. Your limbs shook. Something primal awoke inside, your familiar sorrow transforming into rage.

“Excuse me, my lady, my lord.” The voice that came out sounded unlike your own, but a harsher, more aggressive woman.

The room fell silent, and three pairs of eyes suddenly demanded you perform for them. How quickly your anger dissipated, the flame blown out, and a cloud of smoke fading away into nothingness.

Your shoulders rounded, and your voice came out like your own again, apologetic, high-strung, sheepish. Welcome back, little lamb.

“My…” you looked to Grimmjow, looking away from his penetrating eyes just as quickly, “lord, here, may not have much patience, but I do.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but didn't interrupt. Even the shopkeeper and merchant remained attentive and serious, the grins gone from their faces. Everyone waited for what you had to say, and you searched hard to find your voice in this small, quiet room full of predators.

You stammered, timid and graceless, but you spoke, “but I confess that even mine is wearing thin. We’re tired and we’re hungry.” The more you said, the easier it became. “If you say you do not intend to use me as a whore, then what do you intend to do with me?”

A long silence followed. You observed and overanalyzed every little changing detail in their expressions while you waited for answers, your fear mounting as you did so. Kisuke and the merchant exchanged glances, inscrutable ones at that. Even Grimmjow, ever the expressive man, revealed little to you now. The face that seemed permanently scrunched with irritation only loosened slightly, one eyebrow raised in your direction.

“I apologize for my rude manners, m’lady,” the shopkeeper finally broke the silence, speaking to you now with a flair reserved only for nobles. Though the unnecessary formality made you flush, you could breathe easier seeing the smirk wiped clean from his face, his tone more serious than before. Perhaps you'd been heard after all. “To be truthful, it is not you that we have a need for, but him.”

Him. Just when you’d begun to get your hopes up, your heart sank down into your stomach, sizzling in a pit of acid. Not you. Not you. You snapped your neck towards Grimmjow, eyes wide with panic. His own eyes widened and flashed at the shopkeeper.

“Whether you'd like to believe me or not,” the merchant chimed in, addressing your knight. “I meant it when I said we could use another big, strong man like yourself.”

You stepped nearer to him, brows furrowing, nose twitching as you furiously glanced between the pair of them. Protests turned into incoherent noises at the back of your throat, dying off on their pursuit to escape your mouth.

“And whether you will admit it or not, we know you’re a knight.” Kisuke stepped closer, his tattered hat covering just enough of his eyes to make him look grim and menacing without much effort on his part. “That you fought for Hueco Mundo, and you wouldn't be out here if you hadn't fled the kingdom.”

The next silence that followed fell heavier than the last. You stood near the center of the room, but felt suddenly invisible. Despite putting on your bravest act, making your voice as loud as you could muster, it all proved to be for naught. How silly for a lamb to think she could be of some use or worth in a room full of lions.

“So I fled,” Grimmjow admitted, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. “What's it to you?” He nodded toward the shopkeeper.

He sighed, looking at his merchant. Neither of them said anything, only staring at each other impassively, but something seemed to pass silently between them.

“Please, sit,” the merchant demanded, moving to pull out two chairs at the nearest table holding the tray of tea. “And have some tea. You said you were hungry, didn't you?” She raised her eyebrows at the pair of you. “I will bring some bread and cheese, too.”

You watched her go, your feet rooted to the wooden floor. The shopkeeper moved first, taking a seat at the table without uttering a word. After all that had been exchanged between the four of you, your heart, mind, nervous system, and stomach were all at war with each other, indecision freezing you in space and time. You searched for guidance in Grimmjow, deferring to your lion time after time. He loosed a deep, tired sigh, sheathed his blade, and made his way to the table, your rope still in tow. As if you wouldn’t have done so anyway, he left you no choice but to follow.

He reluctantly reached for a tea cup, sniffing the contents before lifting the steaming liquid to his lips. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a short moment passing before he took another sip, and another, greedily indulging in the warm beverage. Attempting to lift your arms to do the same, you remembered only then that they were still tethered to your sides. You squirmed in your seat, less as an attempt to free yourself, and more so to gain Grimmjow’s attention. He obliviously continued to sip his own tea.

“Need a hand?” The wrong man offered, a cheeky lilt in his voice.

Grimmjow looked your way then, glaring at the shopkeeper over his tea cup before slamming it back down onto the tray. You flinched at the clattering noise, and again when his big, rough hands took hold of the rope at your torso, loosening and unknotting quickly and harshly.

“Guess not.” The shopkeeper winked at you.

Heat rose to your cheeks, your eyes downcast as you muttered a small “thanks,” to Grimmjow.

He ignored you, taking up his tea cup again while he resumed his glaring across the table.

You hesitantly reached for your own tea, as if you needed to be granted permission for it. The air clouded around you, thick and hot with tension and steam. Graciously sipping your tea, you tried to think of anything else other than the shopkeeper’s green-gray eyes on you and Grimmjow’s boiling presence at your side, but the harder you tried, the more difficult it became. You only felt able to breathe properly again when the merchant lady finally returned to the table with another tray, this one full of bread, cheese, fruit, and some sort of cake.

While your mouth parted longingly at the sight, she took her place at the table next to the shopkeeper and across from Grimmjow. They jumped straight into the heart of the matter as if she hadn’t just dropped the motherload onto the table in front of Grimmjow’s and your hungry eyes.

“We don't like to involve ourselves in these matters,” Kisuke began grimly as Grimmjow palmed a handful of cheese and bread rather impolitely. “You see, we’re exiles,” he explained, adding, “from the Soul Kingdom.”

Grimmjow halted mid-chew at those words, gulping down what remained in his mouth. “The Soul Kingdom,” he repeated bitterly.

You hadn’t ever considered yourself the most well-versed in your Kingdom’s politics, but whether you had been the most educated noble in the castle or an ill-read peasant on the streets, everyone in Hueco Mundo knew of or possessed the disdain for the Soul Kingdom. Though war with them had ceased and you both now fought new battles, the average Hueco Mundo resident and Soul Kingdom resident did not play well together. Surviving knights, like Grimmjow, especially detested them.

You anxiously reached for a slice of bread, anything to occupy yourself as the tension in the room impossibly thickened.

“Exiles,” the shopkeeper emphasized before continuing on. “Anyway, we are in neutral territory now, and we stay out of war when we can.”

Grimmjow scoffed at him. “No place is truly neutral.”

“Don't I know it,” Kisuke agreed. “You fled the kingdom for good reason, I’m sure.”

Grimmjow stuffed more food into his mouth, huffing like a bratty child.

“We don't like to involve ourselves in these matters,” the shopkeeper repeated, drawing attention back to his original point, “but…the Quincies…” It was the first time you’d heard any trace of emotion in his tone, aside from amusement. His green eyes darkened.

“They've forced our hand,” his lady interjected, her golden eyes just as dark, but with a glint of fury. “We can't sit idly by while they take what they want,” she stressed passionately. “If they aren't stopped…”

Dreadful memories forced their way into your mind, the stench of death and dirt, the gut-wrenching sense of helplessness and impending doom as multiple men held you down and parted with harsh grips, the sight of fires and ruin and your home being burned to ground, reduced to dust and debris and rubble. You couldn’t prevent the pained gasp that escaped from your mouth there in that room, or the wince that crossed your features as you physically tried to shake the remembrance of what happened from your brain. They take what they want, and didn’t you know it.

You hadn’t realized Grimmjow was watching you, his eyes quickly darting away as soon as you met them. “So then, what?” He asked the shopkeeper and merchant. “You are allies to the Soul Kingdom now?”

“Yes,” Kisuke said.

“And you expect me to help?” He asked, taking a big bite out of one of the cakes.

“It won't be the same as fighting for your own kingdom under the rule of a tyrant king,” the merchant voiced brazenly. “You’d be a mercenary and you'd work for-”

“You said it yourself,” Grimmjow interrupted, his mouth still full of cake. “I fled for good reason.” He took his time to finish chewing, drinking the rest of his tea to wash it down. He slammed his teacup down again, brandishing his usual, angry, wild eyes. “I fled because I’m not fighting in this damned war for anybody,” he seethed. “Not that whoreson Aizen and definitely not the fucking Soul Kingdom.”

You frowned, seeing Grimmjow, and all his fury, in a new light. How long had he been fighting for? You knew of men who were practically born into knighthood, forced to sacrifice their lives for the cause of a tyrant like Aizen. You’d all been taught from a young age what a great honor it was to become a knight, to ride into battle, to die, to be tortured, to suffer emotionally and physically again and again all to represent the colors of your kingdom. You noticed for the first time then the faint, purple bags under your lion’s eyes, thinking of only yourself and your own baggage all this time.

“And you said it yourself just as well,” Kisuke pressed on. “There is no neutral territory, not really.”

“It will not matter who you fight for or who your allegiance is to when the Quincies come,” the merchant picked up where he left off, as if their minds functioned as one unit. “They will take everything.” She made it a point to look at you, her gaze all-knowing. “Everyone.”

You shuddered, fending off more unpleasant memories. Grimmjow had no retort this time, silently staring the both of them down, his face scrunched up defiantly.

In the long silence that followed, anxious thoughts and questions flooded into your mind in quick succession. Though you cursed yourself for being so selfish just moments earlier, you couldn't help but to think of yourself again now. They made a convincing argument, and should Grimmjow agree to be a mercenary, where would that leave you?

“What will happen to me?” You broke the silence.

The shopkeeper and the merchant looked at you thoughtfully, the former finally asking, “what do you want to happen?”

You hardly had a moment to ponder the gravity of his question. “You don't speak to her,” Grimmjow snapped at him.

The weight of your situation counteracted some of the fear that would normally have you shrinking yourself down at Grimmjow’s side. “We have no reason to continue putting on the hostage act,” you told him instead, frowning. “And they need you, not me.”

“We have room for you,” the shopkeeper continued to address you anyway. “Yoruichi isn't much of a cook,” he added with a shrug.

“What was that?!” The woman at his side, Yoruichi, flared up.

He ignored the lion and lioness, smiling in your direction. “Can you cook?”

You blushed, feeling Grimmjow’s angry stare burning a hole into the side of your head, daring you to speak to him. “A bit,” you replied timidly, wondering how much you should reveal to him. You found it easier to speak to him, to both of them, since the time you had first come down here. They shared the basis of their story with you, and they knew Grimmjow’s now too. Ignoring your lion staring you down, you shared yours. “I was the princess’ handmaiden — back in Hueco Mundo. I mostly shadowed her, attended to her every need. That's where my skills lie,” you explained bashfully. “I don't know how useful I could be to you.”

“It doesn't matter,” Grimmjow interjected, raising his voice. “We’re not staying here,” he claimed resolutely. “I’m done fighting.”

You realized then how dramatically your disposition had changed from when you entered the shop to now. His words felt like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You choked out.

“We’ll find our own way in the neutral territory,” he asserted.

“You’re not going to think about this?” You challenged.

Whether she meant to manipulate you or not, the merchant’s words left a lasting impression on you. They will take everything. Everyone. Fear was powerful in that way. It drove you to want to leave this place when you thought it would take Grimmjow and not you, and it drove you to want to stay now, knowing you both could stay here. Together.

“I have thought about it,” Grimmjow snarled at you. “I’m not fighting for the enemy.”

Perhaps you were rotten and selfish after all, but you couldn’t believe his refusal to consider staying here. They offered a roof over your heads, food, perhaps a warm bed, and something to occupy the both of you. He’d have to fight no matter what. Whether it be the knights of Hueco Mundo who remained or the Quincies, he’d never be safe from them, and you’d never be safe from them. No place is truly neutral.

“That is the point of neutrality, Grimmjow,” you desperately continued to argue with him. “That is the point of fleeing the kingdom. We have no enemy.”

“Don’t say my name like that!” He barked back at you. “And don't think that because you're not acting as my hostage anymore that you can speak to me this way! Maybe you don't have an enemy, brat, but I do. And he’s one of the fools,” he glared at Kisuke and Yoruichi, “who fights for the Soul Kingdom. I won't fight alongside him.”

The shopkeeper and merchant seemed to share another silent communication exchanged between glances. Luckily, it went unnoticed by Grimmjow, who certainly didn’t need another reason to pull out his sword again.

Another unpleasant memory flashed in your mind, but you didn’t shake this one out of your head. You heard the Quincy saying a name, a familiar name, but not one you could place. More importantly, it was a name that seemed to trigger an instant explosion within Grimmjow. I know you lost to the Kurosaki boy. You didn’t understand the weight of the Quincy’s words then, but you thought you may be getting close to understanding them now.

“The man who defeated you in battle?” You dared to question, actively watching your knight’s blue irises ignite into flames. “I see now, what this is really about.”

“Watch your mouth!” Grimmjow slammed his fists on the table, the trays and cups jingling from the impact.

“You think only of yourself and your pride,” the venom escaped from your mouth before you could stop it.

“And you don't think at all.”

Maybe it was the stress of not knowing what came next, or maybe the lack of rest, or maybe it was the dehydration, the hunger, or perhaps, it was all of the above — the events, people, and places, from the familiar and unfamiliar, all the way down to yourself, working in tandem to bring you to your knees. Whatever the reason or reasons, you had reached your breaking point.

And you don’t think at all.

The words themselves were cruel, not that you’d expect any less from Grimmjow, but it was more than the words themselves that cut you so deep. It was the tone he used, like he wasn’t speaking to a species that possessed a brain, only a sheath for his sword. It was the way he looked at you, like you could perish before his eyes and he wouldn’t so much as blink as it happened. It was everything and nothing at all. It was him, it was you, it was the two other lions in the room with you, and all of the other lions and lambs out there, in a constant struggle, together or against, love, war, sacrifice, neutrality, honor, death…

Your heart shattered from the way those blue eyes burned you without a care as to the scars they left behind. Tears exploded from your eyes as you stood so abruptly, you knocked your chair over from under you. You were no longer tied down, no longer tethered to him.

At least not physically.

For as you fled that room, hurrying down the dark hall, back out into the shop, through the gazes of curious onlookers, and out into the dusk, you knew you did not cry because you were now free from him.

You cried because you’d never be free from him again.

In the short time that you’d spent with Grimmjow, the stupid lion hadn’t realized how deeply he had already penetrated your heart. Even as you ran and sobbed, your weakened legs giving out from beneath you, you knew your need for him went well beyond the simple protection he provided from other lions. Truly, you wanted your independence. It was something you’d always wished for — to be able to support yourself without relying on another. And now you wanted to be rid of the awful knight more than anything, rid of him and his ill temper and violence and selfishness and poor manners. You wanted to be rid of him, because it killed you how much you loved him for precisely all of those awful things, his temper, intense emotions and passion, his violence and impressive fighting abilities, his selfishness, drive, and discipline, and his poor manners, rebelliousness, and fearlessness in the face of knights and kings and war itself.

You’d fallen in love with a monster, a beast who prayed on lambs like you. No matter how he bit and stabbed and chewed away at you, your love for him remained. Even now, as the rough terrain of the earth dug into your knees and as your eyes stung and lungs burned, all because of him, you craved his presence. Your heart ached, yearning for him no matter how badly he wounded it. Did the sheath feel pain every time the sharp sword forced itself in?

Even now, as you silently hoped he’d follow you out here, that he’d actually care, an eternity passed while you cried and cried. The longer eternity stretched on, the sky darkened, and you became sure of it — Grimmjow still sat in the same spot, leisurely finishing his tea, chowing down on the remaining cakes and bread and cheese, a weight lifted from his shoulders now that he was finally rid of his burdensome lamb. All men are monsters, his own words repeated in your head, over and over. He’d told you, shown you, who he was, time after time. All men are monsters. All. Men. Are-

You sensed the looming presence before you saw it. Fevered, lovesick, you sniffled and swiped at your puffy eyes, hopefully peering up at the lion.

“Grimmjow?”

You met blue eyes, but not the ones you knew and loved. No, your lions were made of fire, and these were made of ice — icy, bright, soulless — as crisp and blinding as the white uniform and silver armor adorning the rest of him. A quincy.

“Hello, little lamb. Are you lost?”

✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎✴︎

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