A Whiter Shade of Pale

Summary: Let me be a boy who has never looked upon darkness, who has never watched the world through the stories from another person's mouth. Let me be a boy who never had to rely on the grudge of anger and revenge to hide the guilt of weakness, who never had to bear a hole in my soul before I was even given the chance of being whole. Let me be a boy who never had to plead for warmth behind eyes that were masked by ice and steel, a boy who never had to look at a smile and know that it was forever branded by tears…

A/N: Oh, beware the Uryuu angst. And Aizen is just evil. I have reason to believe something possessed my fingers as I was writing this… this chapter practically wrote itself.

Disclaimer: I ish not own Bleach-y. But I heart Ishida, who, by the way love.

Oooooo

Chapter 3: Because I Am Kind

It had been a very, very long time since he's been here- a duration that he measured not in seconds or minutes or hours, but in weariness and the slow desolation that made sucking wet noises against his skin. In this world of infinite moonlight and endless sands, in this place of flush white and winding corridors, there was no way to measure the turn-over of time. How long since he has been captured? How long since the Lord of Hueco Mundo picked his body up from among those lying in the battlefield, opened the swirling black cloud of energy that was the Garganta, took him here and made him captive? Was Abarai all right? Were any of them?

He remembered the red-haired Shinigami's frantic clutch against his skin. By the time that Abarai had moved to reach him, he was too tired, too broken, too damaged to sense much of anything. But he did remember those calloused hands, and the way they suddenly slipped from him, and himself falling, falling, before a very different pair of hands stopped the fall. The new hands were soft. They were cool. They felt like knives against his flesh, their mere touch splitting him apart. And before the pain, before the final darkness, he remembered Abarai on the ground, rivulets of blood flowing against his body like a second tattoo, his hair a painful red, the Shinigami reaching out with bloodied hands as the darkness took him away.

He hoped, he willed, that Abarai is not dead. That none of the others were. That nobody had to break their promise.

Oooooo

He had been washed. He had been touched by hands he did not know, his clothes taken and replaced with his characteristic white and their characteristic black. The silky cloth was too thin to protect against the cold, too silky and soft they slid off his shoulders everytime he moved. But he did not care much about moving now. The only thing he could do was stay there, feel the moonlight 

permanent on his skin, because here, the moon did not wane. He just sat there, unmoving, his dark hair molding like oil into the darkness, his pale skin copying the moonlit hue. And he would have continued on, sitting there, blue eyes blank and empty, if the door to his cell had not creaked open.

The Lord of Hueco Mundo stood there, his back against the light, but Uryuu could see the smile gracing the man's handsome features. The man walked with light footsteps towards him, and coming close, kneeled before him, took his chin in those cool hands and gently asked, with a concern Uryuu had not felt for many years, Are you all right?

"Are you all right?" Aizen asked. He was given no answer, just a continuing stare from a pool of deep blue eyes that reflected nothing. He smiled, caressing the soft cheek. The Ishida Uryuu of old would have answered with a snide remark, but this one was different. There was nothing going on within this Uryuu's mind that he could fathom, and though hating to admit it, he was a bit disturbed by the fact. But to fathom a broken toy's mind was not the reason he was here. But it was too bad, all the same, that the boy was subjected to such a fate. Aizen would have enjoyed the Archer's company. He would have made a good antithesis to Ulqiuorra, whose demeanor was cold through and through. From what he heard, beneath the icy attitude, the Quincy was all fire.

It would have been exhilarating to have that.

But no, the pretty one had to be raw material for his plans. Too bad, too bad. The soft weight of the boy's fringe rested on the back of his hand, and he thumbed the long lashes on the corner of the archer's eye. Maybe if there was anything left of his body when the transcendence is finished, he'd make a doll, just like this one. One just as lovely, just as spirited, just as similar to the original. Maybe he will, just because he was kind.

He stood up and closed the door, bathing the room in darkness again. He walked over to Uryuu again, the boy never moving a single inch. The blue gaze was fixed at some indeterminable point on the walls. The black and white kimono slid over one shoulder revealing an expanse of skin so white it seemed as if it was breathing the moonlight. When Aizen's eyes moved to the dark head of hair disappearing fluidly into the dark, he felt a stirring within his palms. It had reacted to the boy's presence, in a way it never had for the girl, for Aizen, or for any other being. The hougyoku, that one spherical piece of Aizen's plan, felt almost like it was… excited to be in this presence. The Lord of Hueco Mundo smiled. That was one fact down.

Originally he had just wanted the Quincy's ability to absorb spirit particles so he could use it as a medium in channeling the spirit energy in Karakura, in the case that he had to move earlier than expected, because the sphere was incomplete. But after the stunt the boy pulled earlier, breaking apart his cross and proving that he could contain a massive amount of energy within that light little body- possibly even more had his soul been bared completely- he just suddenly became vital to Aizen. He had watched the Quincy tribe for years, looking for any soul and sifting through Mayuri's experiments to find if any had exactly the trait that the boy possessed. The fact that the hougyoku was just itching to unite with the archer was proof that he had found what he was looking for.

Laughably Aizen remembered how Abarai Renji had fought with the archer, almost pleading the boy to keep his body intact, that the girl with healing powers could help him, disbelieving when the Quincy said the damage to the mortal coil is permanent, that there was a limit to the girl's powers, she cannot reject with her will what was brought about by the will of another. If the Shinigami had known that it would have been much better if the body had been lost, that it would have been worse if the body had been intact, Abarai would have changed his mind. Aizen could just imagine the look of horror on those children's faces when they hear their friend scream. Having one's soul forcefully torn away from the body was worse than dying a million deaths. Because the boy will feel his body being torn apart, sense as the pain creeps up, jagged and relentless, against his spine, between every fiber 

in his body, each sensation forceful and sharp and painful, overriding his mind and never letting go. For the boy it will be torture. For the Lord of Hueco Mundo, however, it will be entertainment.

But he thought, on a whim, that he might make this a little easier for the boy. Placate him a bit; numb his senses a little, even though it will not make the pain any easier. Maybe he will. Because, after all, he was kind.

Oooooo

The Lord of Hueco Mundo turned to him, a long arm held out, palm up. There was something in his hand, a sphere spinning frantically as the white palm opened up. For him, the hougyoku reminded him of things he did not want to consider, of the memories he buried so long ago it was painful to dig them back up. Tears half-masked by a smile. A sweet scent, cool, soft flesh against his cheek, long warm hair tickling his face. He realized that this must be the way the hougyoku formed arrancar, dredging up pieces of their forgotten humanity to give them a human form and attaching the broken pieces as a testament to their true nature. La luna. The moon. It was she who taught him the words. She, his mother, mujara es mas guapa. They said she was too beautiful. It was true. No. he did not want to remember that look in those eyes, abandonment, it clearly said, a look he had been wearing on his heart's eyes for a while now. But the Lord of Hueco Mundo drew near, and in one swift movement he was dragged up into strong arms that reminded him of another, far more distant yet familiar, of a slight scent of antiseptic and chemicals.

'What does this remind you of?' the Lord of Hueco Mundo asked. From the confines of those arms he felt numbly, wildly trying to grasp at what he almost remembered. He heard himself answering, in a voice that was small and distant, a group of sounds that did not even reach his ears. He could no longer form words, because she took them away- when she died she took all the words. When he ignored me I forgot how to speak. But what did that embrace remind him of? The time under the sun, the spray of the waterfall, the song of nature, the joy in his hands when he held a bow? Or that smile, warm, understanding, kind. Protection perhaps? A safety he had forgotten how to feel?

'What does this remind you of?' The question he had so many answers to. Or a question he did not want to answer. Because somewhere in his mind where there was still a spark, he realized that to answer that question would be to give himself over, fully, completely, that to answer his question was to expose his weakness that was only –

'Comfort? Warmth?'

The man had started to speak, to unravel him, peel his skin slowly apart. Expose him to those dead, empty eyes, to a smile that was kind but dishonest.

'Affection?'

With a jolt he realize that there could be nothing he can hide from this man, this person who was picking his wounds slowly apart. Watching the sores bleed over, heal, start again. And continue bleeding. He knew this man could humiliate him, torture him over and over again, but one thing he could not permit was that this man show his one limitation, his one weakness-

'Or could it be… love?'

-that was only love.



And he felt his last cover tear slowly away, and he knew he was bare for this man to see.

Oooooo

He sits again, blanketed by the light of the moon, his face held up to the source of light. He felt empty, drained. He knew the physical pain would start soon. The pressured force of the hougyoku, not even touching him, had sent fire burning on his skin. It hurt. And he knew it was just a promise of what was to come. But now he was feeling empty, drained, and he did not know how much more he could feel. Maybe by the time the pain started he would be too numb. But then he would be too lucky. Most probably the Lord of Hueco Mundo would want him to scream.

Before the man turned away, leaving him alone, the young archer had asked why. All he got was a smile, that false kindness before the man left him with an answer.

Only because I am kind.

TBC