The Quarry – Chap. 4

(Originally posted 12/8/12.)

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"… Ulquiorra has collected all his assigned ingredients for the upcoming ceremony, an' they're all in perfect condition," Gin reported, standing alone before Aizen in the vast throne room. He scratched his nose and tilted his head. "Now, Grimmjow—hasn't had the same results."

Aizen leaned one elbow on the armrest of his throne. "Did Grimmjow refuse to acquire the items?"

Gin's smile widened slightly. "Naw, he went out to get 'em all right. As I'm sure ya knew, he thought it was a lotta fun." He stroked the hilt of his sword. "But for the first one, his attack musta' been so violent that the bone was completely shattered. When he brought it to my chambers, he'd stuck it in a plastic bag that was so full of blood an' mess that I couldn't even find it at first." He wrinkled his nose. "When I finally extracted it, it was completely mangled. Couldn't be used at all." He shook his head slowly. "The other two weren't as bad. There were tooth marks on one of the long bones but the cartilage was still attached. I think they're usable though not ideal."

"No. I won't tolerate further disobedience." Aizen shook his head. "Have Kaname discipline Grimmjow. I don't want to be bothered now." His nostrils flared. "Then send him out again to collect the required objects, more carefully this time. For this ritual, I need perfect specimens."

Gin eyed him narrowly. "Ya didn' say that eight years ago when we did it before, the last time there was a full moon on Halloween."

Aizen rocked back on his throne and said nothing. Gin scrutinized him.

"Nah, don' tell me that you're doin' one of the variations. You tol' me they were a waste of time, they were just too hard to get right." His eyebrows rose slightly. "You are doin' one, aren't you? Which one?"

Aizen looked off into the distance. "It's different this time. I believe I have all the components required for a successful attempt."

The silver-haired vampire stared at him for a long while. "Naw. You couldn't be doing that one. Not the Ouken Variation. It's too challenging and complex a spell, even for you. If it fails, the backlash would destroy you. Also, it requires a willing and knowledgeable sacrifice. You can't hypnotize, trick, or drug them. They have to walk up to that altar knowing you're going to cut out their soul, use them as a gateway." His eyes slitted more tightly. "You can't be thinking anyone would ever agree to it. It's never been done, not in a thousand years."

"The spell was successfully attempted over a millennium ago, by the one we both know," Aizen said placidly. "So it is possible."

"We don' really know exactly what happened that night," said Gin. "And what about the other clans? They'll band together to stop you at the ceremony. They won't want you to gain that much power over them. You can't keep the location a secret, not with the Ouken Variation. They'll attack you when you're most vulnerable, at the height of the ritual."

"I've thought of that, and I have a plan to counteract any attempts they might make. You forget my most recent strategy."

"You can't use the Ho—" Gin shut his mouth before he could let slip any more information.

Aizen gave a throaty chuckle. "I thought you had been spying, Gin. It makes no difference now. I'm sure you also saw the increased power I've channeled into Kyouka Suigetsu. I've taken my abilities beyond any vampire's."

"Ha!" Gin wagged his chin in astonishment. Then he snickered with reluctant admiration. "I gotta admit, Aizen-sama, there's no one as audacious as you." His voice dropped to a whisper. "So that's why ya wouldn' let me kill her…"

Aizen regarded him from under lowered lids. "Might this cause you to change your plans about whether or not to remain at my side, hmm?" he asked softly. "It might seem somewhat foolhardy to betray a god, eh, Gin?"

The silver-haired vampire managed to blanch despite his already pale skin. How could his master know his most secret thoughts? His Adam's apple bobbed once before his face split in an insouciant grin. "Ne, I would never even think of betrayal, Lord Aizen," he said cheerfully. "Ya know I'll be at your side forever." His voice lowered and he continued, almost to himself, "An' if you can convince that girl to let you use her for this, I wouldn't miss it for the world. If that's really what you're plannin' and not another trick…"

Aizen said nothing, his shadowed features absolutely expressionless. Not a glimmer of emotion was visible on his face or in his aura.

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"All men delight in sensual luxury, all men enjoy revenge; and most exult over the tortures they can never feel – flattering their secret peace with others' pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love the sight of agony, and the sense of joy, when this shall be another's, and that mine. And I have no remorse and little fear, which are, I think, the checks of other men."

Orihime closed her eyes as the sonorous, seductive voice filled the classroom. Aizen reading poetry aloud was almost too much for her to take, his deep, elegant voice like dark music ensnaring her soul. When the poetry was from one of Percy Bysshe Shelley's tragedies, containing the beautiful, tormented utterances of creatures impelled beyond human endurance, the effect became overpowering. She pressed her thighs together, trying to block the clandestine thrill that made her blood burn every time her unattainable professor spoke in that luscious, sinfully dark voice…

The bell rang.

Startled, Orihime opened her eyes and saw that she was not the only one to be nearly hypnotized by her professor's oratory. All around her, she saw flushed faces and shifting glances as Aizen closed the book on the lectern and said calmly, "Please finish reading The Cenci by Thursday and write a short essay on the moral issues raised in the play."

The students gathered their books and began to file out of the room. Orihime lagged behind, deliberately taking her time to arrange her notes in her binder and slide her books into her backpack one by one, until everyone else had left the classroom.

She made it to the lectern just as Aizen packed up his satchel and started walking to the door. "Professor! Please, do you have a few minutes to talk?"

He turned and gazed directly at her. As always, whenever those deep brown eyes were fixed upon her, she felt as though she were pinned and wriggling on a card, unable to move, her most secret thoughts and emotions laid bare. She flushed.

"I warned you, Ms. Inoue, that the subjects of this class could be quite… mature. If you are not prepared to discuss incest, patricide, and torture, perhaps this is not the right class for you." He swung the satchel over his shoulder and turned his back on her, preparing to depart.

"No, no. That's not it." Orihime fluttered after him. "I'm mature enough to handle those topics," she protested. "I'm more experienced than you think," she said, lifting her chin.

He stopped, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in an ironic gesture. "Is that so?" he inquired smoothly. "You have personal experience with such matters?"

"No! I mean I—" Flustered, Orihime stumbled to a stop under his sardonic expression. Then she gathered herself together. "I want to discuss my essay on Alastor."

Aizen stood motionless for a moment. Then he said, "Come to my office. I have a few minutes." He strode out the door and Orihime scurried to keep up with him.

Once in his office, Orihime's courage wavered once again. Aizen dominated the room from his high-backed desk chair. He paged through her latest essay, his face stern. "Ms. Inoue, your interpretation of the following lines is somewhat… unusual." He lifted his eyes to capture hers, reciting the poem from memory, his deep, melodic voice caressing the words. "The dim and horned moon hung low, and poured a sea of luster on the horizon's verge/ that overflowed its mountains." He raised his eyebrows at her in inquiry. Her cheeks had pinked lightly as he declaimed. "But nevertheless, rather intriguing." He smiled slightly, placing his chin on his knuckles as he observed her. "Your view is diametrically opposed to Gibson's, you know, and he is one of the leading scholars in the field. Still, I thought the evidence you gave in support of your analysis quite effective."

Orihime blushed further, scarcely able to believe that her professor had complimented her for the first time. "Thank you, sir." She studied her hands folded in her lap. There was silence in the overly warm office for a moment. She dimly heard the voices of students shouting from the grassy lawn below his window.

"Look at me," he commanded. He removed his glasses, and his deep brown eyes bored into her. "You should take your positions with more confidence, as you appear to have quite a sensitive and intelligent mind." Orihime thought she would faint from delight.

"So tell me, how would you interpret the following passage?" He eyed her with challenge. "In thy devastating omnipotence, art king of this frail world, from the red field of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, the patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, a mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls his brother Death."

The words slipped out against her will. "That's so lovely. When you read, you can make the most gruesome words sound beautiful."

Aizen leaned back, amused. "You don't think the words in and of themselves are beautiful? Shelley was one of the finest poets writing in the English language."

"Of course I think so. But I disagree with both Gibson's interpretation, and," she added boldly, "with all due respect, with yours, sir."

His face went blank and she swallowed. Had she offended him? But he said nothing, merely tipping his head to one side.

"Go on then," Aizen rested an elbow on his desk, his face on his palm, long fingers splayed across his cheek.

Orihime gathered up her courage, marshaling the argument she had painstakingly crafted over long hours in the library. "As you've discussed in class, Shelley read Coleridge, who often used the imagery of the moon in his poetry to represent…" The conviction of her argument took her past her embarrassment, and she was off and away.

When she paused to take a breath, he pounced. "But in this case the imagery is subverted by structure of the poem. Additionally, in Paradise Lost, Milton associates bituminous lakes with Hell."

"But—"

They argued back and forth. To her surprise, Orihime enjoyed the verbal sparring. Aizen had an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject, frequently buttressing his points with lengthy quotes from lesser-known works by the poets they were studying. She could barely keep her mind on her line of reasoning as the lines emerged like music from his lush lips, that mellifluous voice rising and falling in perfect rhythm.

Finally, he overcame the last of her points, and she sat back, defeated but oddly contented. He had taken her seriously, the scorn vanishing from his tone. She might not get a very good grade on this essay, but at least she had held her own. She waited, a little nervous, for his final remark, bracing herself for it to be scathing.

He regarded her for a long moment with his dark, brooding eyes, and she could hardly breathe. Then he shifted in his chair and said gently, "Ms. Inoue, I am impressed. That was an incisive analysis." He paused, stroking one long finger down her essay. "You have made excellent progress in this class."

Orihime's mouth fell open at the unaccustomed praise. She sat up straight. "I've learned a lot from you." Her eyes shone. "I'm really looking forward to further training from you."

"Hmm." Aizen's lips curled up briefly. "An interesting choice of words." He contemplated her blushing face and abruptly got up from behind his desk, gliding over to stand next to her. She clutched the armrests nervously, her gaze following his movements. "I mixed aweful talk and asking looks," he murmured, leaning down until his face was only inches from hers, "with my most innocent love until strange tears/uniting with those breathless kisses, made such magic as compels the charmed night to render up thy charge." His breath tickled her ear. "How would you interpret those lines?"

"I –" Her words caught in her throat. He was standing close, too close. She breathed in his scent and once again felt that dizzy thrill she so often caught in his presence. He gently stroked her cheek, fingertips brushing across her skin and leaving a tingling arousal in their wake. He sat on the armrest and she felt the warmth of his body against hers. He smiled down at her with a hint of wickedness.

"My dear," he murmured. "Why don't you simply admit what we both know? What we have been dancing around since the day you first entered this office?" He bent down and his lips brushed, feather-light, across the rim of her ear. Orihime sat, panicked, still, unable to move or believe this was happening. His mouth traveled down her jaw line, trailing gentle kisses as it went, until finally he sealed his mouth directly over hers.

It was as though she had plunged into a conflagration. His kiss scorched her mouth, blazing and demanding, and without quite realizing what she was doing, Orihime parted her lips and submitted. Frantically, a few stray thoughts and cautions darted through her mind: this was wrong. It was immoral. He was her teacher. He was far older than her. She should push him away. But some deep, hidden part of her would not let her move away. Some part of her realized she wanted him, had wanted him desperately for a long time. It came to her in a rush how lonely she had been, how much she had craved this fitting together of one body to another, one soul to another. His hands tangled in her hair as he claimed her mouth and her body in a way that demanded her absolute submission. Her hands came up to stroke his thick, soft hair as she allowed him to bend her head backwards; his tongue swept through her mouth and the flash fire in her core ignited her entire body. She clutched him as though she would never let him go.

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A/N: All poetry quotes are from Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci, and Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude. I do not own these works either, alas.