Broken Beautiful Things
-/-
she is aware that all is not right with her.
it has taken her quite a while to realize it, but however blind or naive she may be – and she is clever enough to admit these things about herself – there eventually comes the moment when all the blurred lines become sharp and bold, and world that has been mercifully shrouded in a soft, pastel-colored mist, swims into focus. There is no escape after that.
she wonders if anyone knows, if they notice. They must because sometimes, when she is not looking, she can feel their eyes linger on her in a strange, scrutinizing manner, as if they were trying to see inside her head and inside her heart to find out what really is there.
she also wonders how much they have guessed (or perhaps how much they have missed would be a better way to put it). Their frienship and support, tinged with worry and made slightly bitter with suspicions though it may be, is the thing that keeps her afloat. She smiles at them and for them, because she feels that she owes them that much at least, and so round and round it goes, the enchanted circle of things unsaid and questions left dormant, because letting them out would be too painful for everyone.
it makes her sad but that is only proper: all broken things are sad in one way or another, and even more so if they used to be full of light.
(part of her wishes he could see her now – he told her once that there was often more beauty in endings than in beginnings. She thinks she finally understands it.)
-/-
"Don't pretend you're interested in those papers, everyone knows you sign reports without reading. Which is absolutely intolerable, by the way."
"Ohh?" Shinji leans back in his chair, making sure he keeps facing towards the window. "Everyone knows? How do you know it, Hitsugaya? A lad as adherent to rules as you shouldn't hang around listening to gossip, ya know."
"I don't listen to gossip! And rules are called rules for a reason." Hitsugaya huffs indignantly. "There may be important things in those reports you never bother to read."
"Nope. If there's something important, my guys'll come right to me. Only a complete idiot will wait until it's report time, and I don't hold with idiots in my squad."
Not like there's something wrong with the Tenth Squad captain, Shinji muses. Not at all. A jolly little chap, Hitsugaya, smart and strong, and with his head screwed on right, which is nothing to be sniffed at. Nothing rotten about him either. Perhaps, Shinji thinks as he finally turns to cast a glance at his guest, perhaps it's the fact that the guy has the biggest stick ever lodged up his ass that makes it impossible to stop giving him crap.
"We need to talk. About Hinamori."
And maybe it's this too, Shinji adds silently to himself as his lieutenant's name hangs in the air heavily, unwanted subject best left alone, because he knows – and so does Hitsugaya – that the things are not right with the girl. Her shadow hovers between them for a moment, flutters and disappears, a miserable thought fleshing out to remind him the problem can no longer be swept under the carpet.
He wishes fixing things were as easy as breaking them. But it's not.
-/-
she is ashamed because she is not a good friend anymore. She has proof which comes in the form of memories of herself as she used to be, full and fulfilled, a promise kept. She takes them out every now and then, unwraps them ever so carefully, with bated breath, to make sure they are still intact, still untarnished by the merciless passage of time. There is nothing in the world more precious to her. When she holds them up to the light, they shine like ten thousand suns; her bright, happy past where she used to be many things she no longer is.
she wishes she could go back in time, but she can't.
guilty of not being a friend she should be, she tries to compensate by being a good comrade instead, a good lieutenant, a good shinigami, a helping hand. She runs errands, makes tea for everyone, shows newcomers around the place. She sorts papers and writes reports. She waters flowers in the morning and sweeps the floor in her captain's office in the evening; and she smiles and smiles at anyone who speaks to her.
Perhaps if she overdelivers here and is on time there, it will cancel out the wrongness deep inside her heart, the emptiness in her mind. Perhaps it will put everything right again.
(he once told her that things are only right when they are balanced and she is still trying to wrap her head around that one)
-/-
"Where is she?" asks Hitsugaya, and Shinji shrugs.
"Around. Delivering papers to Captain Commander, I think. There was a great big pile of 'em here on my desk this morning and I can't see it anywhere now. But I deduce that it couldn't possibly have gone away by itself."
"She's working too much," Hitsugaya says after a short pause. "And too hard. I don't think she gets enough sleep either."
"Nice of you to notice. But I'm not making her. She volunteers all the time. She freaking insists."
"And you know it all and do nothing to stop her?" Anger makes Hitsugaya's voice deeper, if only a little, and his eyes turn icy. "Are you trying to kill her, Shinji?"
Poor little captain Hitsugaya, Shinji thinks but doesn't say, you really would benefit from being taller, wouldn't you. It shouldn't be like that but how we look is important and ignoring the fact doesn't make it go away. We all create an image of ourselves in the eyes of the people around us. If we are sharp enough we can make everyone percieve us the way we choose. It's only too bad that those who don't mean well are often so good at that. Look at Hinamori. How can she ever really listen to you saying she should move on when all she still sees is that bastard Aizen who was all smooth and wise and cool and more or less made the world go round? Next to him, you're a kid who needs a pat on the head and a big bowl of soup to help you grow up faster. In her head, she knows you're right, but in her heart? But I don't want to explain that shit to you.
"Think you might be confusing me with someone else," he says instead, in a cutting voice. "And just so you know, although I don't have to justify myself to you, I tried to make her stop and she only got worse."
"Why would she get worse?"
"Cause she suddenly found she had too much time to think, you idiot. D'you believe those are some happy thoughts rollin' round in that head of hers?"
-/-
the sadness that now makes up her every waking hour coils like a noose around her neck, lies sleeping during day and suffocates her at night, bleeds her dry when no one is around to see. If only she still had it in her to give back as she receives, to love like she once could.
but when he departed, he took away the part of her soul that was the most important one, and in its place a void has opened up that cannot be closed, that sucks in happiness, and joy, and colors; takes all and returns nothing. It's curious, she thinks, that one man who never needed her love and devotion, who was so ruthless he saw people as insects, could become that one thing that, once removed, made her entire universe collapse like a house of cards.
if he had reached into her and ripped out her heart he couldn't have dealt more damage.
(he also said that in order to make things balance, one had to cast away without hesitation all that was unnecessary; a perfect structure has no spare parts. She turns it around in her head slowly and thinks: you cut it all off, but you had so much to give. But what am I supposed to do when I don't have enough as it is? A broken sword has no balance.)
-/-
The sun is high in the cloudless afternoon sky, and everything is quiet except for the chirping of birds and cicadas trilling away in the long grass.
Shinji, hands folded behind his head, can feel Kyouraku approaching. He does nothing, though, not even bothering to get up from where he's lying with his eyes closed.
Finally, a shadow falls across his face and a deep voice says, seemingly far above.
"Oh my, does that make me feel nostalgic. Only a month ago I used to be doing exactly that, napping away in the middle of the day, and it never got old. Then, of course, Nanao-chan would appear..."
"...and wrestle a sake bottle out of your unresisting paw."
"Yes. That's why I always made sure I had no less than two at all times."
"Well, I'm not as fond of drinking as you." Shinji yawns and cracks one eye open. The sky is bleached almost white, and Kyouraku, towering over him, is no more that a dark patch of shadow against it's bottomless brilliance. "Besides, Hinamori's hardly the type to get all worked up about me being a slacker."
"Because she's more of a type to start doing all the paperwork in your place, isn't she?"
"Have you been spending time with Hitsugaya by any chance?"
"A bit. And I'm getting worried." Kyoraku sits down on the grass beside Shinji and – after a moment of what may, by someone who doesn't know him, be interpreted as hesitation – produces a sake bottle from under his haori.
"Old habits die hard, I see." Shinji examines Captain Commander's face thoughtfully. Oddly enough, losing one eye seems to have made Kyouraku look much less relaxed than he used to. Instead, there is a shadow that has never been there before, and something akin to weariness. Kyouraku never really looked like he has seen centuries come and go before – he does now.
Suddenly, Shinji is very grateful no one suggested he should become the next Captain Commander.
"Ain't nothing I can do about her, Shunsui. I tried everything I could think of. Admonishing, rewarding, scolding her – nothing works. Hell, if I didn't know the bastard's still chilling in his cell, I would believe it's him again doing some weird shit to her. Experimenting, maybe."
Kyouraku uncorks his bottle and takes a sip.
"Just because Aizen is still confined to his cell, and indeed he is, luckily, doesn't mean he is not the source of the trouble."
"You mean he's somehow..."
"No, nothing of the sort." Kyouraku waves his bottle-free hand in a vaguely pacifying gesture. "But he doesn't need to do anything. What he put into Hinamori's head is already there and the saddest thing is that she herself doesn't want to let it go."
-/-
when she finally realizes she can take no more, when she finally decides, the world changes.
she can see it as she makes her slow, steady way across Seireitei in the soft, warm twilight filled with a million unobtrusive sounds – laughter and footsteps here, birdsong just over there, a glass being broken around the next corner. It goes on and on all around her, rolling over her and receding, an ocean made up of tiny lives all moving in different directions, unthinkingly, following routes and patterns. These are familiar waters, the streets she can navigate with her eyes closed, but everything seems a little surreal to her.
the light has changed somehow, or maybe it's her perception of it, and everything is now bright and clear, as if her sight had become twice as good. She thinks she can see, for the first time, every wrinkle on the face of the shinigami sweeping the street in front of the Fourth Squad barracks, and is surprised to realize there're so many, and filled with sadness for the old man who has never made it past forteenth seat.
(and at the same time she is full of joy and triumph she should not be feeling at all, but she is, because he will never look like that, he is immortal, now immortal, the only one who is)
the sounds have become softer yet it seems that she can hear every fly buzzing against a window, searching blindly for a way out, every sigh of relief when someone's long shift is over – she knows it can't be right. She doesn't care.
she reaches the First Squad barracks when the sun has almost set, and she is calm like only those who are already hovering over the final threshold can be.
(she thinks this is how glass feels a moment before it shatters. The world chimes gently, like a crystal bell, transparent and luminiscent, the sun reflecting in every plane and every edge; eternity compressed enough to last no more than a heartbeat. She wonders if he has planned for that too)
-/-
Darkness falls and spreads, as the enemy invades their world.
"Never liked bombers, ya can't get more insane than that," Shinji mutters indignantly, trying to prop himself up into a sitting position. The explosions that the Quincy girl keeps producing are somewhat drowned out by the size of Komanura's altered bankai. "Don't ya overdo it, pal." he adds under his breath as he watches the other Captain's unexpectedly human form through the smoke and flashes of reishi.
Shinji thinks the magic Quincy use stinks like swamp, like rotten seeweed, for some inexplicable reason, but maybe it's just the projection of his own disgust and panic. He will never admit it to anyone – in fact, if he could afford such luxury, he would not even admit it to himself – but the panic is indeed there. Not overwhelming by any means, not even close, but the seed has been sown and is growing.
Well, now we do need some help, he mutters under his breath, hell yeah, Ichigo. Hurry up and get your sorry ass over here already.
"Hinamori!" he snaps, not turning around. "Get ready, now!" and realizes that she is not there. The emptiness feels like a soft, hushed reproach.
Like an apology, too. A feather drifting away on the wind.
The Quincy's lips move – the girl mocks Komamura, perhaps, proclaims this and announces that, arrogance and self-confidence oozing out with every word, not that Sajin is impressed or Shinji interested. Perhaps if it were their leader here, the one who killed the Head Captain - but alas, it is not to be. Komamura will take care of her alright.
Shinji's mouth stretches and twists into a crooked grin. Girl or boy, Quincy or Hollow, or even Shinigami - he'll kick their sorry ass if they dare threaten his home. Strange though, how strongly he feels about Soul Society being his home these days. Who could've thought.
But all around him, Shinigami are still falling, and his lieutenant has vanished. The air is heavy and tastes slightly of despair. He is wounded and bleeding, and no matter how much he hates to admit it, he cannot stay conscious anymore.
Light fades and reappears, and someone is fussing over him, trying to heal him, to move him away to a safer location. Neither Komamura, nor the black-haired Quincy are anywhere to be seen.
The ground shakes and on the other side of Seireitei, a column of what only looks like fire erupts from below and shoots up into the sky.
Shinji does not have to look to know the color of this reiatsu, to recognize this power he hoped to never feel unleashed again.
He doesn't try to figure out how they might go about bottling the demon up again, if such a thing is feasible at all, he has to time for that.
He only thinks of Hinamori.
-/-
she moves down and under, deeper and further into the place that is no longer part of Seireitei, a nowhere place of lightless emptiness that she knows to be there. It is a prison, but one unlike anything she has seen before. Rightfully so – he would not be stopped by walls and iron bars, not him.
It is surprisingly easy to navigate the darkness that spreads around her, much like it was to get rid of the guards. She feels ashamed of what she has done, little Momo Hinamori attacking her own comrades, opening the forbidden door, going to undo the victory that cost them all so much pain and suffering.
she remembers –
when she was a child she used to like puppet shows: marionettes dancing to the subtlest wishes of the invisible master, grotesque moves somehow forming a beautiful pattern, painted faces that made her feel emotions she could not even name. There was always sadness in even the most joyful of endings, a hint so faint it was barely there, a suggestion of a different, more sinister outcome. It touched her in a way she was unable to describe or even comprehend and it made her return to watch again at every opportunity.
she became a shinigami and the impressions of her childhood faded away, sank into the routine of daily patrols and night watches, paled in comparison to the new feelings she held in her heart, and she forgot many things and many meanings.
when she found out she had been turned into a marionette herself, and that the hand pulling the strings was the one she had believed would always be there to catch her if she stumbled and fell, to offer comfort and support in a world gone dark, she went numb and remained that way for weeks and then months.
she knew people thought her broken by his betrayal and did nothing to dissuade them, although deep down, she thought: broken is a wrong word.
(he once told her that breaking things without mercy was a form of mercy in itself, and she was almost horrified to hear it from him who was the kindest of all. Because, he said when he saw her wide eyes, a clean cut heals fast and leaves no scar. What is shattered completely and is beyond repair leaves you with no other way but to move forward. Blood half-spilled will leash you and poison you, and will have you re-live your defeat again and again.
Only a very cruel person could do such a thing to someone, she said, only someone truly heartless.
Yes, he replied, indeed you are quite right.)
-/-
"Hmmm?" Kurotsuchi turns his head ever so slightly to get a better look. "That reiatsu feels unpleasantly familiar..."
"Yes." Urahara does not bother to argue the point or feign ignorance. He'll know that presence anywhere. It's hardly easy to forget, after all.
Around them, Mayuri's subrodinates are trying to piece the picture together or at least to pick themselves up from the floor.
"Hey, that feeling..."
"What a terrible, monstrous reiatsu! It can't be one of the Quincy!"
"A shinigami then! Bound to take our side, whoever that is!
Not likely, Kisuke thinks, as he feels the invisible tendrils of power spread and reach him, coil around him – not dangerous yet, only scanning, gathering information, populating an imaginary map with data.
"I feel like I'm about to faint, and now's really not the time..."
"Isn't that where the First Squad's barracks are located?"
"I wonder if Captain Commander is alright?"
Mayuri tears his eyes away from the blinding light and fixes Urahara with a stare. If Kisuke didn't know him well, he might even call it scolding, of all things.
"And I wonder if that, too, has gone according to the plan," Mayuri finally says, poison lacing his every syllable.
"A plan, definitely. There is always a plan." Kisuke refuses to bite. They have more important things on their collective plate now, they cannot afford another major squabble. He hasn't left his outpost in Hueco Mundo to gossip with Mayuri. "You know how planning ahead can be all sorts of useful!"
The air is ringing, filled with the promise of an approaching catastrophe.
-/-
she remains still as a statue as she watches him straigten up slowly. She has always enjoyed watching him move, her captain, fluid and graceful, full of strengh and confidence. Time has changed nothing, after all. Even now, his is not a slowness born out of two years spent unmoving and tied up, but a calm, almost cat-like ritual. He has all the time in the world.
it is so unfair. How can it be that someone as twisted and vile as him bears no mark that could scream to the world of his crimes? If the world were the way it should be, every death he has caused for his selfish reasons, for his cruel arrogant designs, would be a scar etched deep into his skin, and by looking at him, she could read the history of his downfall like a book. Instead, he is calm and unruffled, his features unmarred by the past or the chaos that has descended upon the world.
she searches for her voice that has gone missing because it seems like she has to say something to him, and finds many instead of one - they rise up and coil and speak in unison inside her head.
(I have not been myself without you. There is no one like you in the world, in any of the worlds)
(I curse you. You have played me in your game and now I'm ruined)
(Help us. Help us. Between us and them, surely, you will choose us?)
she takes a step toward him, eyes wide and unblinking. Her zanpaktou is unsheathed, hanging loosely between her fingers – she has used it to hurt shinigami today and the understanding of what she has done is beginning to seep slowly into her blood. Soon it will poison her mind and she will crumble. But before she does, she has a duty to carry out.
she takes another step forward and he looks up at her for the first time and smiles.
it is the same smile she has come to love and then to fear, a smile full of forbidden knowledge and closely guarded secrets, of confidence and lack of repentance that only one who has gone too far can possess. It's silk against the sharpest of blades, a mask that has long since become the real face, a conspiracy dating so far back nobody remembers how it began. His eyes are the familiar warm golden-brown, the color of honey and autumn refusing to give way to winter. She looks for a sign, for any trace of the bleached, inverted purgatory of Hueco Mundo, its empty dreamless sky and howling winds that carry white sand from nowhere to nowhere, devoid of direction or purpose.
but he is still the mirror reflecting the beautiful, shining world, and though she knows now that it has the other side and lurking in its depths is the face of death that longs for nothing more than to be let out into the world, the surface of the mirror is a perfect lie.
"Captain Aizen," she says, and his name is a seal on her lips, on her tongue that is entirely too quick to form the familiar sounds. Traitor. Traitor.
(she is - just as much as he is)
"Will you help us?"
Silence is so unbearably loud in her ears, she is afraid of going deaf; directions switch places behind her back; shadows move where there are no shadows; and Aizen's face, eerily beautiful in the unnatural darkness of the underground prison seems to drift away from her, and only then she realizes that she is falling.
(He wanted to be a shinigami and a hollow, and his wish was granted so now he is both and neither, like a border between the worlds belongs to no particular place, nor is it a place in itself. He has taught her a lot about breaking things and she can understand, finally, how he has come to know them: the flesh will bleed when cut, but the blade feels nothing of its own sharpness. How can one blame a weapon for being what it is? )
-/-
Aizen watches her hit the floor and sprawl there, boneless, like a rag doll. Her eyes stare up at him for a moment longer, then become unfocused, blind.
What a perfect thing he has created, he thinks, the best of his works, the one that has served him faithfully until the very end, against her own better judgement, against all laws and rules, against all that she herself believes in and stands for.
He might never be able to produce something as flawless as her again. The artist is the most important thing, of course, but the quality of the canvas also matters. He could finish her off, but he is reluctunt. She has been useful to him up till now. She might be again, in the future.
Outside, far above, he can feel the power of the invaders fluctuate and fade for the briefest moment and then expand rapidly in all directions in their strange version of release. There're many Quincy in Soul Society. Too many perhaps.
He turns away from Hinamori and leaps up into the world that should be his to break and reshape.