© 2006 Gold
The Bleach Collection - No. 1
Title: Gin's Captain
Disclaimer: Bleach is created by Kubo Tite. This work is a piece of fanfiction and no part of it is attributed to Kubo-san or any other entity holding any legal right associated with and arising out of Bleach . It was written purely out of fanservice and it is not to be used for profit or any false association with Kubo-san or aforesaid entities.
Author's Notes: There is a reference here to an "ink-and-water" painting. I understand from research on the Internet that this is commonly known as "ink and wash" painting. However, I have chosen to call it "ink-and-water" painting, because the Chinese characters literally mean "water-and-ink drawing" and I just like it better this way.
Summary: Things are never what they seem. What is the past that Ichimaru Gin and Aizen Sousuke share?
Warning: Writer's cheerful imagination. Also, fangirl Japanese.
The cups are plain, inexpensive china mugs in a soothing grey-green shade, and there is a frail pattern of faded bamboo leaves and stems painted on the surface of the china.
The table is small, round and perched on carved oaken legs; the cups tiny and perfectly curved, shaped by raw power from the purest of marble, dazzling white and icy to the touch.
There are a few paintings hanging on the wall, works of art by people whose names he cannot read. Many years later, he will remember that one painting, a bland ink-and-water piece, is by one Ukitake Junichirou. The second painting, a rather rude one that has been hung next to the bland one, depicts a nude woman and her bosom resembles cantaloupes. The artist seal proclaims that the work is from the hands of one Kyouraku Shunsui.
The room is cold, dark and empty, save for the steps leading up to the high seat above and the incongruous table with its perfect marble teacups.
Outside, the wind howls, and the snow falls in cruel drifts that bury all that is green and good, of which there is precious little in the Rukongai, to be honest. But he is slowly growing warmer, and the large, kind hands that cover his small, bony ones, are guiding his fingers around a warm bowl of soup that has large hunks of bread peeking out.
Not far off, the curious high screeches and heavy noises echo through the world. He can imagine where it comes from—the Experiment Rooms, no doubt, where those both willing and insane submit to the glory of the unknown.
A strange creature with a high, almost imperceptible cry like the sound of an enraged seagull. Black and white, like a giant puppet without strings, with a body like folds of black velvet, a face like a grinning half-skull, and fingers of skeletal bone only, and he is frozen with inexplicable terror. Then suddenly he feels a warmth surround him, and the sound of the wind rushing past him, and he lands with a thump at the foot of the woman with cantaloupes for breasts.
The voice in his ear is like wine that warms his blood and fills his senses, and reassures him.
"Stay here and don't leave. Don't worry, everything will be all right."
Everything will be all right.
When he wakes up, it is to a dead silence. The remnants of the soup are dry in the bottom of the bowl and around the sides, where he has tried (and failed) to lick up every last drop. The food lies heavy in his stomach, as if he has eaten something wrong, but it is simply that his stomach is not used to being filled.
The paintings on the walls are still there.
The scent of the blood in the air, though, is new.
The snow is dazzling and the air is still, and there is nothing to be seen for miles, not a drop of blood, no suspicious misshapen lump beneath the snow, but he knows.
His feet are bare and wet with melted snow, and he knows, without anybody telling him, that he will never see the man again.
"Ah, Gin, I thought I would find you here."
When he next sees that man, he is tall and robust, hale and hearty, and his smile is as gentle as he remembers. This man has triumphed over death itself... what is he, a god? But even gods, who live in the Seireitei, die in Soul Society...
Ichimaru Gin smiles cheerfully at the intruder and taps a marble cup almost thoughtfully with the tip of his fingernail.
His name is Aizen Sousuke, of the Fifth Division.
A godly man, it is said, whose blade is as clean as his body and soul. He is gentle, confident and wildly popular with all the shinigami; a leader both wise and calm, they say, whose counsel even Yamamoto Genryuusai Shigekuni, the captain of all the captains, occasionally condescends to listen to. He is also past master in combat, and has been known to engage in the highest of intellectual discourses on the finer points of combat strategies with the faculty of the Academy. Fifth Division, agrees the humbler denizens of the Seireitei, are incredibly blessed to have Aizen Sousuke...
Aizen Sousuke, regally clad in his mostly white robes and that peek of black under-robe, curves a finger, and Gin smiles, still holding the marble cup.
"Put the cup down, Gin."
"Ha-aiii." Ichimaru Gin cheerfully puts the cup down. Upside down.
"Na, Aizen-fukutaichou, would you mind telling me... when did you become a Hollow?"
The zanpakutou is at his throat, but he feels nothing.
"You don't seem afraid."
As far as he is concerned, the real zanpakutou is still in Aizen Sousuke's hand. The one at his throat is mere illusion. And there are three Aizens—the one in front of him, the trick reflection on his right, and the one who is lying, eyes closed, buried deep inside the Aizen that is in front of him. He looks hard, at this third Aizen, the one who never became a fukutaichou, whose black robes are tattered and stained with his life-blood. This is the one he remembers. This is the only one who would have that memory of that little child beggar from that winter's day so very long ago.
His own zanpakutou is already at the waist of Aizen-hollow and has been there since Aizen Sousuke's zanpakutou touched his throat. "Should I be, Aizen-fukutaichou?" And the way he says "Aizen-fukutaichou" is like a mocking curse coming from his lips.
Aizen-hollow looks at him for a long, long time.
"You are most interesting, Ichimaru Gin of the Fifth Division."
Ichimaru Gin glides down the steps, taking care to beam challengingly at Tousen Kaname's stern face as he passes his once and fellow colleague.
"Let him be, Tousen."
Aizen's voice is mild and lightly indulgent, as befits a ruler speaking about his favourite pet.
Tousen's voice, not so indulgent, is low, firm and clear, and Ichimaru Gin can hear his direct, one-sentence unvarnished opinion which involves something about Gin, the lack of responsibility, and the vast task of justice that they have ahead of them.
Justice?
"I am Aizen Sousuke."
Justice is the warm bowl of soup with the hunks of bread that a small, desperately hungry child beggar at death's door was given one cold winter's day many, many years ago.
The smile is so kind, so gentle, so warm, and the eyes are so very soft and brown behind their large, clumsy spectacles.
Justice is the strength in one shinigami's arms when he brought a child beggar to safety and then turned to lure a soul-devouring monster away from the child.
"Stay with me, and perhaps I might just return him to you..."
Justice is the shinigami in the black robes stained with his life-blood, lying with his eyes closed, deep inside the shell of his hollow equal.
Every fukutaichou swears an oath of fealty that binds him to his taichou.
Ichimaru Gin swears the oath of fealty to Aizen Sousuke, in an official ceremony before the eyes of thousands of disbelieving shinigamis.
It is an oath that Aizen never released Gin from even when the latter came into his own as the captain of the Third Division.
It is an oath that Gin has never asked Aizen to release him from, not even when the former has come into his own as the captain of the Third Division.
Ichimaru Gin's eyes are hard, fiercely slitted and watchful as a cobra's, and his smile is a sharp angular slash in his thin, sharp face.
My oath is to you and you alone.
Hinamori Momo, poor, foolish girl, has never touched the real Aizen Sousuke. Perhaps he should not have suggested that she become the Fifth Division's lieutenant. But life is ephemeral and so is happiness, and she has experienced both. So perhaps she is not so poor and not so foolish after all.
For Ichimaru Gin, perhaps he, like the hapless Hinamori Momo, is trapped in the reflection of the moon.
Mayhap the old Aizen, the real one, is gone, and the fleeting glimpse Ichimaru Gin clings so stubbornly to, of the stricken, bleeding shinigami that he remembers from childhood, is merely that—a vague vision cobbled together from fading remnants of an old, dredged-up childhood memory—only that, and nothing more.
Perhaps the old Aizen has already merged with this hollow Aizen.
Perhaps there is nothing left of the man who saved him once, and he is only labouring under his own delusions.
Even so, perhaps at the very least, he simply wants to stay for as long as he can, by the side of the man who bought his life and soul with a warm bowl of soup and some bread on a winter's night, long, long ago.
After all, life is so very short.
Ichimaru Gin hums a quiet little tune as he strides down the corridor, his well-shod feet noiseless against the cold, dank marble floors.
O Captain, o my captain...