Shiro's thoughts over Mugetsu and the 17 months without power.
Blue. Silence. Darkness. Emptiness.
Shirosaki hated the sight of empty blue skies. Vast and wide and oh so endless, he abhorred them vehemently. With all the time he spent trapped inside the inner world, he came to hold a special hatred for that shade of blue that blankets his world. Still, the great blue emptiness was nothing compared to the vast nothingness that the soul world had become in those seventeen unbearable months.
Those months of powerlessness he spent " living " in a vacuum were nearly enough to make him lose what little sanity he had left. It hurt to think about such things... How Ichigo, his king, his host, his wielder, his soul had so willingly given him up. They didn't need Mugetsu to win! Goddamn that fucking Quincy and the boy's idiot father for telling him about it! Engetsu was a fool for letting that knowledge be known! Had he shown Ichigo his true power, their true power, they could have killed Aizen— but no... The Quincy wouldn't allow it. He would rather let them be torn apart– right out of Ichigo's soul– just so the boy would remain "innocent" a while longer... And Ichigo did it... He ripped his own soul apart for them.
Shirosaki had no need for a heart, but the unbeating vestigial organ in his chest still ached just a bit knowing that no matter what he did, Ichigo would always throw them on the fire rather than risk putting those weaklings in danger. How idiotic that kind of attachment was. Pathetic. Pointless. Weak. It angered him. It disgusted him him. It filled him with…longing…and loneliness...? How utterly pitiful.
That feeling…. Knowing that no matter what he did, everything about him could be erased in an instant... That he could be trapped in some point between life and death for decades because of someone else's will... because of his master's will... The hollow despised it with all of his being.
No matter what Shirosaki did that selfishly selfless goddamned bastard would never value him over them. The one and only person he would always be bound to throughout all eternity— the one person he could ever muster up a single shred of caring for— just so happened to hate himself so much he could never care about his sword. Because he was his sword and his sword was him and because of that, in the King's eyes, neither of them really mattered...
The memory of the void made him feel so many things, but in the end, the was nothing more prominent than the loneliness. When push came to shove, not even his literal other half cared enough to let him live.
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