Hisana, Hisana.

Everyday he thought of her, of the mistakes he made, of his stupidity, of how, single handedly, he had killed the one person he wanted more than anything to protect.

He thought of her everyday, and each thought was like a spear, piercing into his heart, leaving behind fresh wounds over open scars. Livid, angry scars, dark and ugly, taking claim over whatever it was that he once was.

It had all been a mistake, everything, since the first day he had set his eyes on her.

He still remembered, the first time he saw her face, the exquisite beauty of her dark, cerulean eyes, her porcelain like skin, the ebony lengths of wavy black hair. Those features, coupled with her delicate manner, served to conjure an air of fragility over the girl, the feeling of how a slight touch might shatter her, a word, more harshly spoken than intended would damage her, cracking that brittle veneer of courage and send her weeping.

It was such the feeling that Hisana had projected to him, the very first time he had lain his eyes on her, as he walked through the streets of one of the most violent in the whole of Rukongai, and he remembered, briefly wondering how it was such a fragile object could have survived in a place where death was commonplace, where violence, anger and murder created such a stench in the air that it hurt to breathe.

He had just returned from the world of the living, and his face, cold, expressionless as always, hid all that he thought and felt, yet the slight lilt in his stride, absent on usual days, betrayed the slight glory and satisfaction he had been basking in.

He had just purified five Hollows, a feat he knew he deserved to be proud of, and so, he allowed himself the slight indulgence of satisfaction he would normally have denied.

And then he saw her, and all thoughts of his greatness left his mind.

The single, brave front of survival and fragility she extended humbled him, leaving him speechless with shame.

Sometimes in the night, when he was wrecked with guilt, he tried to come up with reasons, anything else to blame, as to why Hisana wasn't here, with him, alive, smiling and telling him once more how much she loved him.

His fault. All his fault, and a hundred excuses would never mask such a truth, for he knew it in the deepest depths of his heart that it was – true.

He had been selfish. His interests first, above all else, above family, above Soul Society, and above her.

And yet, such thought to him, to the one who had loved her the most, were unbearable, and everyday, every waking moment he scouted for someone, anyone, whom he might deposit all his anger and sadness and gnawing longing and guilt on, someone he could blame, whom he could hate, with the deepest core of his being, to assuage all that he felt and could hardly bare, for someone – anyone!- to share with him the burden of being at fault for the dearth of hope, of light, and the exquisite smell of cherry petals.

It was her.

His resentment found it's own victim in the form of her sister.

It had been her! It was not him. Her! The one who had consumed Hisana, bit by bit till she was no longer recognizable as the women he had fallen headlong into love with. She had devoured her own sister, even while she was still alive, everyday, every moment stealing bits of her from him as he fought against her almost-omnipresent existence.

He had struggled, he had wrestled, and he had lost.

Lost! Lost Hisana to the depths of shadow from where she would never return, lost with nothing but an empty promise he had no intention to keep, of sickening memories he could never relive, to remember her by.

He hated her.

From the very depths of his soul he hated her sister for all that she had done to them, how she had overpowered them, how she had defeated them.

And for years the cloud of hatred hung over his head, bending it towards his work and duty to the station in which he had been born.

He no longer dared to put his own desires first, subduing them for fear that another tragedy may occur, for hadn't his lack of judgment already proved fatal to all he held dear?

And even as he buried himself in work to ease the aching pain, nothing would numb his hate.

Until he saw her.

Cerulean eyes, porcelain skin, ebony locks – and an indomitable spirit not the least feigned, real beyond imagination, one that could not be crushed by guilt or the loss of a sister.

And in ignorance, her charm was – irresistible.

She did not smell of cherry blossoms,

But it did not matter.

His hate had disappeared in a waft of jasmine petals.