Desolate.
Silent.
The world he lived in had been like that for what seemed to be an eternity. It had always been quiet, for sure, only now nothing moved. The vertical clouds were stuck in their place and the frail wind was gone. It was like looking at a painting – right until the moment the world started cracking again.
A pale white boy stood in the middle of the bluish world. His face bore no emotion as his golden irises trailed along the scenery. For a second his eyes stopped on a building in the distance, just a breath before it collapsed into nothingness.
A sigh.
Ichigo's inner world had died during that battle. With Zangetsu and shimigami powers gone, his soul had quickly stilled. Maybe he didn't remember his hollow. Maybe he didn't care. The big question was, why did the hollow care?
The hollow closed his eyes and tried to get a grip of his nerves. He had no idea how long it had been since that fateful day. He didn't have to eat, drink or sleep, and without access to Ichigo's thoughts he couldn't keep any track of time. The place he had once lived in – a home? – was now nothing more than a prison. A prison that was slowly but surely falling apart.
A sharp inhale.
Hollows didn't have hearts, hollows didn't feel, hollows didn't cry. All of that he knew. But the albino hated being a hollow. He was not a mindless, soulless monster. He was a part of Ichigo. He was his faithful Horse, no matter how much he had once wanted to be the King.
Hatred and screaming were the two things that had kept him going. He had sworn revenge on everyone and on everything, from that orange-haired human wench to the hōgyoku. He had hated Ichigo for playing the hero and all the shinigamis for being useless. They had taken away everything from him. Probably from Ichigo too, though that was only his guess. Nothing he did reached the Strawberry anymore.
The albino had screamed his lungs out already. He had whispered, he had talked, he had shouted and he had shrieked. Hoping, wishing and concentrating hadn't worked any better. He was alone and his King didn't even know he was still there. The sky never gave an answer.
But he couldn't go on much longer. He was a fighter declined to participate in a battle ever again. His rage had died down and taken all of his strength. Talking with emptiness was not worth living.
One of the clouds crumbled, halfway through.
Harshly the hollow sat down on the cold wall and his shoulders slumped. Maybe he had been wrong the whole time. Maybe instinct wasn't the real difference between a king and his horse.
The rest of the cloud fell to pieces and disappeared into dust, and he watched with broken eyes.
Maybe the Horse couldn't make it without his King.
Maybe the King could move on even with his Horse dead.