when the sinner of the seireitei had been felled, the last word to come from that mouth gilded argent with a tongue truly designed from silver was a ragged exhalation of that name, unsure if he'd thought it --- uncertain if he had said it aloud. he had felt the hogyoku being snatched from his chest, those fingers seeking to curl around the sphere of glossy purple-blue that was more bruise than it was coloration, the poison that had erupted through him leaving aizen's body rent and torn. he had sought to grab at gin as terror had washed through him in the wake of his chest being rent asunder by a poison that had been nothing he had known about until those moments when naught but the tips of gin's fingers rose to hover over his heart as it labored and continued to stream trails of incarnadine fluid between palm and stomach from that entry point, the virulent toxin ripping through muscles, bones, organs. aizen had reached out without thought to that young man, had tried to grasp that wrist, to keep him anchored there. to beg him don't let me go into the dark alone. don't let me go into the dark alone. she went into the dark alone. i was not there with her when i should have been; i failed her. i failed her. a child's sorrow, a child's pain and anger. i was asleep. don't go --- DON'T --- GO!
was it so selfish then, of him, to have wanted gin at his side when he had been descending into an unknown? for him to have called for gin, feeling something his chest cracking no matter that it had been succinctly devoured by such poison? a thought had curled through his head like ivy growing along a stone wall to engulf it in green tendrils ( did you hate me so much, gin---? did i fail you as i failed kaname---? i knew that you would make an attempt upon my life one day --- i knew and yet --- i had hoped it would have been DIFFERENT FROM WHAT HAPPENED. FROM WHEN IT HAPPENED. ) and he had found himself falling into the dark. had that name reached the owner of it? of that man daubed within the moonlight?
had gin heard the breathless shaking of the rich baritone as the name had risen up into the air as if to coat the cold winter's sky above the street, wherever he'd gone to hide? a decision made by the viper, fleeing, but not far enough, not fast enough. gin had not been able to escape the rebirth of that entity and his fury. he had not tried a garganta. he had not tried a sentan hakuja. aizen knew well how fast his partner in all things could be when he wished to be; though gin did not seem the same master of kido that aizen was, he was sharp and he was capable. he could have led into a garganta. he could have run as soon as he'd sensed that power. he could have run. would it have been better if he had fled out into the rukongai? would aizen have pursued him if his partner had dropped the hogyoku in those moments with his revival, if gin had turned and run from what was only certain death itself? would he have chased him?
there was no way to know.
aizen had sought to not think about it, of all the ways that gin could have L I V E D. how he had screamed within his own head, his own soul --- the scream had not emerged until ichigo had been there, yanking him away, a hand in his face and hurling him into the ground miles away from where gin had lain dying. if he had not done so, then aizen knew he would have cut her down. his hand had begun to lift the blade and how he had stared at her back, ready to sever her spine, to cut through ribs and lungs alike. he would have done that and he would not have cared. his emotions had been a furious maelstrom. they had been both frozen cold, distant, far away from himself and yet heated in those moments with pain, with grief, with heartbreak --- with anger.
the anger at himself had come later. the fury. the rage. the LOATHING OF HIS OWN PERSON AND SOUL FOR WHAT HE HAD DONE. there had been no one else to blame in the entombment that had become Muken's halls, every other soul absent; he had been made to look his own foolishness in the face with understanding of his own folly. how aizen wished he could have destroyed himself. how he wished he could have done so. but the darkness of that imprisonment had crept into him, through him, drained him of will and of the desire to be aware. there, in the dark, he had been aware of the presence at his side. gin, there --- holding him some periods of awareness. snarling at him and pressing shinso to his mouth, his throat, his belly on others ----- how he had accepted it all, almost welcomed it. yet more anger had brewed at himself for his inability to weep the way she had, her tears falling like rain upon that face daubed with red thanks to aizen's own hand. he had tried. he had strained for tracks of grief to carve upon his face, be they tears proper or blood itself.
he had not been able to shed tears then.
there had been no time for tears now.
how the figure of the god laid there now on the ground, blood and glutinous remnants of his eye leaking freely, that depth shattered. he did not move. he did not move from that and he did not move when the blade was sunken into his chest and dragged, splitting bone and muscle in a spray of red, severing veins and snapping tendons, cutting through organs that bulged in red wetness through the canyon rent in his flesh by that blade. the fang of his viper was sharp, keen-edged steel drawing blood upwards and out in its wake like an unfurling banner of carmine, a threading of claret that had ever tied them together; for gin had spilled blood on the night they first met for him, had performed with easy grace to impress the man who would become his captain, become the right hand of the deity that slumbered at the heart of the seireitei itself as the divinity's anger grew hard, grew cold, grew and grew until it would suffer no more.
had gin heard his name when aizen had fallen on that day...?
on that day, he had fallen into the darkness of death, spiraling down into a stygian blackness that seemed to embrace him. on that day, it had enveloped him. it had not been like the darkness of Muken. it had been different. and then the hogyoku had pulled him from that sea, that unknowable ocean with a shore across it that was uncharted. he had known as he had sunk into that sea that he would wait on that shore for him. that he would not, could not, bear to move on until the one who was moon to his sun joined him at last. the acceptance of one's death was a strange thing and in those seconds as the sky had darkened, the blue that he so loved ( blue as those eyes, blue and vast and wide and free; how he loved the blue of gin's eyes, wanted to touch them, wanted to be swallowed by the blue. strange, how the sky caught in gin's gaze was not empty as the heavens were. strange how he could feel as if he could bear the heavens upon his back and shoulders with ease like the one known as atlas had if the blue of that world was like gin's eyes. ) becoming darker and then he had seen it no more. the unknown sea embraced him then.
it embraced him now, just as tenderly, just as gently.
seconds ticked by, no pulse of life in his chest, no breath of air from his throat. the god laid there as if transfixed, one eye a blasted bloody ruin thanks to the bursting sharpness of the wakizashi. there was no motion. there was no LIFE---------
AND THERE WAS NO WARNING FOR WHAT CAME NEXT.
there was no cyclone of violet fire suddenly erupting into the sky in a column of purple-tinged white. there was no howling scream of pain. there was no sudden awful presence in the sky. it was silent and it was dreadful for the silence and it was wholly complete in that nature.
the first pulse swelled outwards from the body that laid on the rubble-strewn ground, a subtle vibration that did not rattle the pieces of detritus scattered carelessly in proof of the destruction that had been wrought upon the whole of the seireitei. it was too subdued to shake anything around the body which still laid as if in loose-limbed repose before the studying watchfulness of the two that stood over him; but the bones of the earth seemed to resonate against the thrumming that was building like the increasing tension in the air before the cutting stroke of a strobing bade of lightning cutting from heaven to earth and back and to groan in agony rending at the solid bulwarks of its contours, mirroring it back. like ripples on a pond, the power whispered like waves from the epicenter that was the black body. again and again the bones of the world rang in reply to the power that was shifting, changing, yet there was nothing in the air to betray what was about to ensue.
the body was gone and the air was left to crash down in a blanket of suffocating density over the two before him, before the swaying brightness of silver and azure and the one who clung unwelcome to his back. how fury could manifest itself. there was no screaming of the air but the thickness of tension was profound and declared in full in those moments as the form was left to blur away from the two that had so set their sights upon the deity that had been cut down yet again by the silver lance of such power. once, there had been a thought: a blade aimed towards the soul king. never had it crossed his mind that it would be turned towards him. the figure was a rush away, up from the ground without any motion.
fast, too fast to be properly seen, too fast to be tracked with one's own eyes---- gin might, if he were lucky, see a blur of blackness darting aside from where the god had lain upon the ground as if he had been cut loose from the string which held him upright and proud. if he were lucky. one instant, aizen had been laying there, wounded and bleeding and felled, head shot, heart shot, body ripped open by a viper's fang and spilling out viscera in glossy vermilion, blood and organs alike pushing up towards the air with a raw stench of blood upon iron; the next? there was almost nothing to track, be it with eyes or senses.
no flaring brilliance of violet but a shrouding of effulgence that seemed to darken the skies and the atmosphere alike. the pressure of the air changed suddenly, swiftly, perhaps swiftly enough to draw pain from eardrums flexing and popping to try and keep up with the density as a form crouched nearly on the edge of vision, steam curling into the air in slow exhales between fang-lined maws. the being wore those black bindings -- at least somewhat. they had somehow been shredded as if rent by powerful claws --- ripped by the reiatsu that was howling beyond the edge of viable perception. an ocean in the sky, a mountain, a world of pressure upon a level far, far, far beyond what should have been natural. the pressure was further supplemented by something so simple that, as the face of the being turned, might leave the quincy paralyzed as eyes without any color focused upon her. perhaps it might send a cold frisson of terror through her veins.
perhaps it might even stop her heart.
it was gone again, moving fast fast FAST---- FASTER THAN THE WHITE BLINDING SPEAR OF LIGHTNING ITSELF. faster than the beating rush of blood through veins, a neuron firing in the cage of the skull, the breath of air exhaled from the lungs, the flickering blink of pale eyelids. too fast to be properly beheld. too quick to be halted by any exterior force. another manifestation of movement.
then sound erupted, a sound that started somewhere below a basso growling and then rose into a howl, a ROAR, that erupted through the skies above in furious rendition. it was a noise that blended the sounds of wild beasts with the tearing screech of metal, rising into a cresting wave that slammed outwards and forwards at both resurrected shinigami and quincy alike with such force that it would not be a surprise if they were both hurled back as a result even if gin attempted to plant his feet in a reaction to withstand the power in the outcry which rose from the soul of the entity that existed there before both shinigami and quincy. a howling --- no. a screaming. a soul that had been reborn in fury, jaws opened wide, fangs glinting in the light, snow-caped mountains that were brilliant against the dark dome of the night air.
how slowly those jaws closed and eyes of pure white gazed upon the resurrected shinigami and the little quincy alike; eyes framed by black, a mask that concealed the noble features and was beset by rows of jagged teeth that curved across one another in sharp peaks of white. a mask that was coldly onyx, a deeper black than the remnants of the bindings which still covered the body. where shinso had dragged across the body, inky raiment was left to gape enough that a sphere glowing with brilliant violent luminescence was visible between the sagging material. motes of light seemed to swirl within it in a frenzy, fireflies caught in a storm. clawed fingers gripped tight at the air, taloned feet curled; thorns of void-light were cutting into the atmosphere as the air began to thrum and tremble as if an earthquake was tearing itself from the womb of the ground beneath them, rubble skittering and bouncing across the ground where it was being forced away from the beast that crouched there, milky stare fixed with full predatory intent upon both puppet and puppeteer. up it rose, more of those bindings splitting with the motion as a basso snarling rose from the powerful chest and one foot moved forward.
the ground CRACKED. more than cracked; the earth underfoot was groaning as if it were some vast animal in pain as chunks of flesh were gouged out by uncaring fingers. a cratering was forming beneath the motion to spread wide with the impression of power which birthed its presence, a bowl manifesting and then another as the beast began to prowl forward with a burning growl hitching higher, starting to swell like a cresting wave into another bellowing that was aimed at the area, the air, the environment. pebbles that had been scattered as if sown by careless hands were in evidence evaporated by slow increments at first, crumbling away without coming in contact with him; they vanished abruptly without warning when in far closer proximity to him. the edges of stone were cut as if with a blade too sharp to be named, the perfect scooping edges of something removing physical obstacles from the coursing of that power. how tall the being stood, the growl rolling from its throat echoing like thunder caught in the vocal chords, the lightning which spawned it the fury that rippled through the air. strands of brown hair swirled along that throat, somehow elongated compared to what they had been, a messy and half-neglected mop of vibrant chestnut no more.
would gin remember the swirling cascade that had become that waterfall of thick mahogany, draping over the broad-shouldered back concealed in ivory membrane?
the mask covered that face, noseless, without true features --- but black. a black mask when every other hollow's mask had been WHITE.
another snarling from the beast, that echoing growling rolling through the air --- AND A HOLE WAS CARVING ITSELF INTO VIEW IN A NEGATION OF FLESH THAT SEEMED TO OOZE SOMETHING THICK AND DARK IN GLUTINOUS SUBSTANCE, A CIRCULAR THING CUTTING THROUGH THE CENTERPOINT OF THAT TORSO. it spiraled outwards until the hogyoku was left suspended within its exact center, as if the intersection of cardinal points was to be found there; there, the heart of the world itself. but was not the man who was draped in white the one who had devoured that heart years ago? did not aizen sousuke's heart beat in ichimaru gin's throat? in his stomach---?
eyes monochromatic in color, a mask that was utterly devoid of any hue; it was chilling, truly a display of something ---- MONSTROUS.
those clawed hands flexed, spreading wide into proper talons, and the anathema stepped forward once more. a tensing of powerful legs and the air cracked as the figure let a void where the atmosphere was left to rush into the absence as it hurled itself towards the quincy with another of those metallic-edged roars that rode up to a higher pitch. the sky above seemed to fracture, to split, oozing open ---- shadows surged within, motes of red glowing in view as others were summoned by the howling of one of their own.
awareness was a jarring thing, feet splashing against water and leaving aizen's head to turn. blackness spilled outwards in all directions, the water about him glossy and shifting with its own ghastly sheen. those waters spread about aizen, his head turning this way and that. this was not Muken. this was something else; he turned again, shifted, tried to see something, anything beyond the water. something was wrong. SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY WRONG. the last thing he remembered ---... a quincy. a quincy girl hanging from the neck of ----- from ----
from the neck of the man who had cursed him ( blessed him -- ) with immortality. he would never die. he would never perish. he would never age. ichimaru gin had successfully severed aizen from the onus of his mortal coil. a curse cast with bitter tears, with scorn --- with love. somewhere, yes --- still love. still that. a man who had successfully left him ever free of the taint of the years, from the perils of mortal wounds. such was what had been done to him and his mouth opened to cry out.
where --- was he? he could not name it but it felt strangely familiar, a cold memory; not like the day of the hogyoku's will overtaking him, corroding his soul, his personality, his brilliance and leading aizen to stagnation. words cruel dripping from his mouth --- we will hang their bodies outside of town. --- words that were not truly him. gin, who had called his name with concern rising higher, with his voice growing louder, when aizen had turned away to face the cleaner and destroyed it with but a singular look and a flexing of power. had he done that on purpose for ichigo's growth? he could not say. he did not know. he didn't know anything. but this felt ... wrong. something akin to a dream pressed against him, a dulled awareness like peering through clouded glass coated in thick grime, a dim sensation of input from the world without.
but gin was not here, this was not where he had been on the ruined white streets of the seireitei, this was not where aizen had stood with the wish for ruin upon his lips and tongue. dispossessed, somewhere else--- this was not the situation that he had been in. this was not --- where was he? there was no answer, a disconnection from --- where? WHERE WAS HE? a feeling of being swallowed, a blurring pain through his head, his chest --- hands lifted, hands naked of the bindings, and he turned again, shouting out once more.
fury that had blazed through him, an understanding of something being amiss. an understanding that that had not been gin --- not TRULY. gin was sly and sharp and not --- a wraith. a revenant. aizen had understood so much in but seconds as he'd stared at the quincy who had held herself to gin's back, arms intertwined in a circling harness of limbs about his throat. the sight alone had been enough to make aizen's blood BOIL. it was not enough that the little bitch had seen fit to raise a ghoul of the man who was the source of so much pain and delight to aizen sousuke. it was not enough that she had stepped into his path. SHE WAS USING HIM. so it was that the raw lividity had bloomed with incandescence in aizen's soul, that outrage more than enough to drive him now. the wrath which was truly unheard of, a heated rage which promised that he would take the quincy apart, LIMB FROM LIMB.
then it was lunging for the dark-haired quincy, too fast to be perceived with one's senses. claws lashed out and raked at her face.
