Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in the following work. All recognizable anime characters belong to Tite Kubo. All others characters are adapted from a diverse spread of cultural and mythological lore. I am making no profit from this story. Cover art by perkisaur.

Author's Note 1: What is dead may never die, but rises. Harder. Stronger. Or maybe she just finds time in her crazy life to let her imagination out of its dusty crate.

ALSO: The illustrious, amazingly talented perkisaur made me some INCREDIBLE artwork for Psychopomp, which I've used as the new cover for this story. To my great shame, I've been totally irresponsible in keeping up my part of the trade, which is a Grimm/Tats one shot—however, it's nearing completion and will come out shortly after chapter 22 of this story (which should also come out very soon). See my profile for the story summary. And for that matter, see HER profile, read her stories, check out her artwork. She's totes amazing!

Chapter 21: Madness

I can't get these memories out of my mind
And some kind of madness
Has started to evolve
-Madness
by Muse

Nights Since Orihime's Disappearance: 8 / Soul Society

When they had returned to her room to retrieve her clothing, they found that it had become the impromptu meeting place for the captains Ma'at or some other high-ranking figure had gathered to discuss the new threat Inguma, and other dream gods like him, posed upon their human guests. With a shrug and mock-salutary lift of her half-empty sake bottle, Hraust walked passed them into the room and unceremoniously closed the door in their faces.

Holding Renji's enormous kosode closed at the chest, Tatsuki stood stiffly, staring at the closed door.

"Shouldn't you be in there too?" she said, to break the silence more than anything. But still, it's true isn't it? He's ½ of the team tasked with looking out for me, so doesn't this problem concern him too? But even as she thought it she corrected herself for her stupidity. It involves me, and I'm not welcome.

She could almost hear him shrug. "If they wanted either of us in there for the meeting, we would be. I wouldn't be surprised if they're discussing current events in the light of some other part of the battle plans that are too classified for a lowly Lieutenant and a trainee." He paused for a split second. "Besides, I think I'm underdressed for it, anyway."

Tatsuki was glad that she was still turned with her back facing him, so that he couldn't see her blush. After he'd literally given her the shirt off his back, she'd turned only to be confronted with a very well-defined, very bare chest that bore tribal tattoos reminiscent of the ones on his forehead. Just how covered in tattoos is he?! And with that traitorous thought, it was nearly impossible to keep her face from turning beet red. The smug and knowing look on Hraust's face when she'd turned quickly away so that he would not notice only made things worse.

Oh for fuck's sake, she reprimanded herself. What are you, a five year old! Or a prudish old lady! By all rights, that should've been the most embarrassing part of all.

Just when she was about to turn around to prove to herself that she was not a child or a grandmother, the door creaked open. Tatsuki, relieved that someone had remembered to hand out her clothes, instead found Ma'at's olive-skinned arm reaching out her sword to her.

Tatsuki took it quickly, hoping that Hraust had not noticed she'd left it behind when she rushed off to the boys' room. "But what about—" Tatsuki began, about to ask for her robes.

"You are more naked without this, I think," said Ma'at, her smile almost motherly. Somewhere behind her, voices started rising sharply; some sort of disagreement was taking place, but too many people were talking over each other for Tatsuki to understand what was being said.

Abruptly, Hraust leaned in front of Ma'at and grabbed the door handle. "Leave it behind again, and it will be the only thing I allow you to wear in public until the war begins," she said sternly, and firmly closed the door. Of course she noticed.

Tatsuki stood there, slightly slack-jawed, her sword in one hand and Renji's kosode in the other, until the laughter Renji had been trying to stifle rose up loudly behind her. It was nearly a guffaw.

"What's so funny?" she finally turned to face him to find he was doubled over slightly, one hand on his stomach, still laughing breathlessly.

"If she makes good on that threat," he said between laughter, "I'll have to start carrying around a laundry bag with extra clothes in it."

As much as she wanted to snap at him, current circumstances made any retort ridiculous, if not downright hypocritical. She settled on huffing a breath and rolling her eyes instead.

"Oh, don't worry. It'd be more for everyone else's sake than yours," he said as the laughter dwindled.

Her cheeks flamed. She was about to shout, "And just what the hell is wrong with me?" but was able to choke it back just in time, and replace it with an angry, "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That I don't want to have to stop you from gouging out the eyes of every man that takes a second glance, or cat calls during your…what would you call something like that? I'd say "naked exile" but you're not gone anywhere, just naked." He looked up and to the left, considering. "Nude penalty? No, that just sounds vaguely perverted."

Tatsuki stared at him a moment, rendered speechless by the sheer incredulity of his words, and the lighthearted manner in which he was delivering them while standing there half-naked. "You're ridiculous," she said finally, sounding more dumbfounded then accusatory.

"No, the world is being ridiculous. Damn near every part of this cross-dimensional situation is utter insanity, and I'm just now getting used to the idea that if I keep on taking it all too seriously, I might as well run head-first into a brick wall. Repeatedly."

He smirked at her, "Gee, who else around here do I know that could use some of my grand wisdom?"

He isn't wrong. You already decided you would work on this. She let out a sigh, and looked back at his smirking face.

"Grand wisdom? It looks like you're halfway to 'naked exile' yourself."

"Hey," Renji said with faux indignance, "Unlike some girls that forget their swords when they run off in their underwear, I wasn't forced into exile. If anything, I'm halfway to a naked Walkabout."*

She rolled her eyes and tried to suppress a smile. Her efforts were in vain.

"Now, If you're ready to stop staring at the door, let's go find some food and some more clothes. I'm starving," he said, leading the way down the hall.

"Can it not be in that order?" she asked, trying to keep the lightness in her voice, but genuinely not kidding.

"Hey, are you committed to this naked Walkabout or not?"

As they left the 11th's compound and made their way across the Seireitei, she considered the way she calmly ignored the multitude of stares and speculative looks they were met with as onlookers realized they had only one set of clothes between them to be great progress on her part.

Nights Since Orihime's Disappearance: 8 / Hueco Mundo

"Once you have eaten and dressed, I am to take you to the main audience chamber," he had said. "And there, before Aizen-sama and the allies we have assembled thus far, you will regenerate Sonneillon's wings."

It had been nearly impossible for her to finish the meal, after that. In no small part because her hand was shaking so badly, she found it difficult to keep food on her fork.

If Ulquiorra's presence during her meals had once been oppressive in its emptiness, it was now positively stifling with the intensity of his focus. Even when he was not in her own line of sight, she could feel his stare boring into her as if it was a tangible thing, sharper and more threatening than the tip of a sword pressed between her shoulder blades.

As she numbly passed food to her lips, she had been able to think about nothing but what he could possibly be thinking. Is he angry with me? That was a stupid thing to wonder. Of course he is. Who wouldn't be? Not only did I force him to relive the worst moments of his life, I was there for the whole thing, an intruder to a grief so private he didn't even want himself to know about it.

When she had obediently finished the last morsels of food on the various plates, she stood on slightly trembling legs to face started slightly, realizing that he hadn't moved back from where he'd been standing behind her chair when she'd risen. Instead, he continued to stare back at her, silent. Unable to bear returning his gaze, and not knowing how to diffuse it, she shifted her eyes to a point above his right shoulder, avoiding both his stare and the place she knew his jacket concealed a perfectly empty wound while she waited for...What, exactly? What does he want?"

~If you continue to behave as a sniveling child, I will not help you.~

She could feel her eyes become huge as they stared at the wall, and it was all she could do to limit her complete shock at the invasion of her mind with the foreign thought to that physical reaction alone.

Her next thought was more a reflex than anything else. What?!

~I will not repeat myself. The other one may tolerate this cowardice, but I will not abide it,~responded the most unforgiving woman's voice she had ever heard.

I…I don't…

~No, you do not. But you will, or you will die in this place. And worse than death as well.~

Orihime herself had not even had a clear idea of what it was she "didn't," so the woman's words made hopelessly little was, however, one thing of which she was sure. I've heard you before. This is not the first time you've spoken to me.

~It is not.~ There was a very slight pause. ~But nor am I the one that pulled you from that creature's nightmare.~

That was interesting. Does that mean there is more than one 'voice' inside my head?

~You do not have time to waste on pondering such obvious facts, foolish child,~ 'said' the woman. ~Do you not see what is now before you?~

Ulquiorra? She thought, unable to process what was happening, let alone the rapid shifts in conversation. Was the voice being metaphorical?

If your eyes are not knotholes, then use them for more then a decoration. Look at him, girl.~

Although she was scared of Ulquiorra, of his strange behavior and whatever retribution might be waiting for her, she found herself even less willing to further anger the mysterious voice in her head. Her eyes cut to him briefly, and saw that he was still staring at her. But for being so still and silent, she had never seen a more frenetic gaze; it was like his mind was boiling beneath the surface of his eyes, cataloguing every thing it saw and cross-referencing it thrice-fold, yet still dissatisfied in the quality of its analysis and displeased with the lack of results.†

He is searching.

~That is obvious.~

She ignored the subtle insult and focused on the confirmation that she had been correct. But…I don't understand what he wants. I don't understand what he's looking for.

~Then you are a fool,~ sneered the voice. ~You plunged your fingers into the deepest, darkest recesses of his being—memories that have fueled his furious, violent dominance of all the other souls he has consumed—and watched it unspool like a roll of celluloid film. And in the most broken moment of his despair, the moment he tore his own being asunder from the terror of it, you refusedto yield to the enormity of that desolation and anguish. An ancient god had to practically command you to let his heart go, you were so determined to keep it.

~What do you think he is looking for?~

Orihime blinked. He…he wants to know why I didn't do the same thing he did. He wants to know how I could do such a thing. Or, I guess, not do it. She had seen, she had felt the complete and utter loss of hope in him, the precise moment it had happened. She had been aware of how convinced he was that discarding his heart was the only course of action that he could possibly choose. He…he doesn't understand me.

It was not until this very moment that Orihime realized, truly realized the disadvantage at which she now had him. I saw everything that made him what his is. But he, in returned, had not gained any reciprocal knowledge of her. Instead of giving her a sense of empowerment, the revelation only sent her mind back to the first days she had spent in the nightmare palace of Hueco Mundo, and how impossible she thought understanding of its inhabitants would ever be. And how trapped that made her feel, knowing that such a lonely place would be where she spent the rest of how ever long her life would be.

'Unblendable.' That is how I described Ulquiorra and I to Coyote. And, in the grand cosmic irony of the universe, her own foolish decisions had blended them after a fashion—but only from her perspective.

And now, he wants to understand me…

As unnerving and stressful as it was, if Orihime chose to look on the brightest possible side of the situation, as she so often did… Maybe this is not a bad thing.

However, she didn't really know how to help him in this endeavor if she herself did not understand why she had refused to yield his heart until the gentle voice had convinced her otherwise. She thought back to terrible rending sensation that seemed like it would tear her apart at the seams. All I could think of was how much I would regret letting go, even though it hurt so much. How would all his staring ever resolve the mystery of that?

What should I do? she beseeched the voice.

~Show him what he so desperately wishes to see. Show him the woman that endured in the face of his ultimate despair. Not this timid, quivering cow.~

How? I don't…I don't know what that… How could she project that, when she had never really seen that in herself to begin with?

She had the distinct sensation of an exasperated breath from the woman. ~Then do as I say.~

Orihime took a deep breath and obeyed the instructions that followed. She straightened her knees, and suddenly her feet felt as if they were more solidly beneath her on the cold floor. She straightened her spine next, pulling back her shoulders and opening up her chest. Like superheroes do, when they stand before the villains, wrapped up in their capes and their justice. Like Tatsuki does, just before she lectures someone for their own good. The thought almost made her smile.

Though it felt like true dialogue, Orihime knew that only the slimmest of seconds had passed during the entire exchange. Without the need to move muscle and bone to speak, understanding of the thoughts conveyed to her, as if directly into her brain, was near instantaneous, and later she would doubt that even Ulquiorra would have had time to notice something was amiss—aside from the rather sudden disappearance of her fidgety behavior.

When her eyes finally returned to Ulquiorra's face, she discovered that his own had not fallen down to her breasts when she straightened her back, as was so very, very common in the vast majority of interactions she had with men, and many women as well. He never took his eyes off of mine, she realized. Even when I was looking away, he was trying to see directly into my brain. Into my being.

She waited a full five seconds, and then five more, before pushing the words past her lips. "Is there anything special Aizen-sama wishes me to wear for the demonstration?"

Ulquiorra continued to stare at her, motionless for a few breaths longer, until a very slight crease appeared between his eyebrows. I did it, I disrupted his focus. She blinked, realizing she would not have noticed such a subtle expression of thought in him before…the incident. A second later, his eyes tracked down and over her body, as if he hadn't before realized she was still only wearing a thin nightgown that barely covered her thighs, and which was clearly inappropriate for even leaving her room. She remembered the voice's stern scoldings, and struggled to control a blush that was mostly out of her control.

"Your uniform will be sufficient."

"I understand." On legs she refused to let wobble, she walked past him, to where she had folded her uniform in a neat pile next to the bed. Aware of his scrutiny, she did not bend down to pick it up. Somehow, while she knew he would be too focused on…interpreting her to even register what would surely be an indecent display of her rear end, she still thought it would be best to avoid it altogether.

"I need to change," she said, without looking back.

There was a pause in which she could practically hear him force his brain back into line with Aizen's objectives. "I will wait outside."

Do you want him to understand you?the woman's voice asked when he had left.

Something in the tone of the voice made her realize that this was more than just an idle question; this was a choice. If Ulquiorra came to understand her, she might be able to make a friend, or at least a positive acquaintance out of him. Common ground was the beginning of all such things, and if she was able to forge any sort of mutual respect between them, who knew what the positive impact would be, for both of them? Tatsuki reached out to me, despite how different we were on the outside. And look at what that had given them both.

But, she thought, he has an objective, too. Ulquiorra was still Aizen's loyal follower, and he had a responsibility to carry out whatever was ordered of him. And what if Aizen should desire I be turned in mind and spirit, or manipulated even further for his purposes? Wouldn't any type of trust between us only increase his opportunity to compromise my own heart?

This was the moment she would decide whether she would work towards obscuring Ulquiorra's view of her inner workings, potentially protecting who and what she was, or whether she would work to build a bridge of understanding between them; whether she would endure eternal isolation in this realm, or dare attempt a mutual understanding—with the risk that it might change her as much as she hoped she would be able to change down, she realized just how much she had feared that Hueco Mundo would alter her. Corrupt her in one way or another, even if it was just increasing her capacity for anger and bitterness as the long years in the nightmare palace steadily fueled feelings of resentment for everything around her.

She could not ignore the weight of the decision, and her thoughts chased themselves around each other as she dressed. She pondered it while she slid out of her nightgown. She mulled it over while she pulled up her uniform pants, and slid on her undershirt.

She thought about Ichigo, and how he had befriended many of the enemies he had bravely defeated. He thought about Tatsuki, and how she wouldn't be afraid in the face of any challenge, even one like this.

Yes, thought Orihime. I want him to understand me. If nothing else, I owe him that. I didn't give him a choice before I did what I did. And if nothing good came of it, she would live with that, too. If I let this place scare me away from reaching out my hand, then it already has changed me.

~Then you will have to think very carefully about who you are, Inoue Orihime.~ When the voice said her full name, it felt like static electricity dancing over her skin. ~You will need to find the strength in you that you seem so determined to hide, even from yourself.~

~And you must do it quickly,~ she continued. ~For I am not some patient nursemaid, and this is not why I am here.~

Orihime blinked at the hardness in the voice, as much as the implication. Then why are you here? What do you want? And…who are you?

~You will know me, little girl. I am the chaos of the sea at storm.* If you survive the meeting with the Fallen Captain,* you will know me.~

If she did not know better, she would have sworn there was thunder and laughter, both, in the pronouncement.

And the other? she thought. What about "the other one" you referred to earlier?

There was a moment in which Orihime could feel the great presence of the woman pause, almost as if she were considering, or weighing her words. It was remarkable, given that she hadn't sensed anything even remotely close to "hesitation" throughout the entirety of their interaction.

~She will speak with you of her own accord~ the voice finally said. And with that, she could feel the woman's departure in her mind, in a way that she had not been able to previously. Orihime made note of the fact that the other woman's presence in her mind was not a constant—meaning that her thoughts weren't always being monitored by the being, but also that Orihime wasn't sure if she could call out to her, if needed.

Further consideration of the unnamed goddess was interrupted by the return of Ulquiorra—a return she could feel more than see—and Orihime realized that she had been standing, staring at the wall fully dressed, for a few minutes now. I am going mad. This is some kind of madness.

"It's time," was all he said before turning to walk away, and she sprinted the short distance to him to follow the coattails that snapped in his retreat.

They were almost to their destination when she realized where they were headed. The throne room. It was there that Aizen had made her demonstrate her powers to the assembled Espada by regenerating Grimmjow's arm. Well, I suppose it is rather grand-looking. And it had more than enough room to hold however many guests Aizen might have invited to gawk at her.

Given that the throne Aizen had lounged in to watch the restoration—and subsequent murder—was the only thing of real significance in the entire room, she briefly wondered if it had a name, or if it was indeed just called "the Throne Room."

It would be minutes before she admitted to herself that she was purposefully letting her mind aimlessly wander, in the hopes that it would avoid the topics of the strange woman's voice in her head, Ulquiorra's scrutiny, and the demonstration she must give for, of all things, fallen angels.

When they came upon the door to the throne room's antechamber, Ulquiorra opened it and stood aside, silently letting her pass through. No sooner had she stepped over the threshold than a man she had not seen, but who must have been standing just to the right of the open doors, grabbed her hand and swung her into a twirling spin. She was caught completely off guard, and with a noise somewhere between a shriek and a squeak, she only just managed to stumble into his arms without falling on her face.

When the motion was complete, she was pressed much too close against a man who had one arm around her waist, the other holding up her raised hand as if they were about to begin a ballroom dance.

"My, what a pretty, pretty carrot girl," he said in a low, appreciative voice.

A bare second before she was about to start squirming and calling to Ulquiorra, she looked up and saw his golden eyes, full of mischief.

"Ah, can this be the lovely Inoue Orihime we have heard so much about?!" Coyote loudly asked everyone and no one. "And such absurdly colorful hair. You're like a flower waiting to be pollenated, my dear!"

While she'd seen Coyote wear a human body before (Ichigo's body, she thought with a flash of anger), she knew on some primal level that the form he was in right now was not the copy of someone he had known or seen. This was, for all intents and purposes, his human form, whatever his truest form might actually be.

The bronze skin of his face was framed by thick, midnight-dark hair that tumbled past his chin. The shaggy mane held all manner of things, and she wasn't sure if they'd been placed there for effect, or simply caught there while he was rolling around in a forest somewhere: twigs, blades of grass, a bur, and even a small downy feather from some bird. He was tallish, but not impressively so—maybe slightly taller than Ichigo. Bracelets of beads made from stones, wood, and bone fragments clicked at his wrists and ankles, and besides these he only wore a length of tanned hide torn from some animal wrapped around his hips.

He dipped her backward, gracefully curving her spine deeply over one leanly muscled arm, and Ulquiorra came into view—albeit upside down.

"El Que Llora," Coyote said, "is she not the most beautiful creature you've ever seen?!" Ulquiorra's eyes flicked from hers and up to Coyote, and she could not recognize the expression on his face, though she was positive "annoyance" was somewhere in the mix.

"You see that, dear? Your beauty has struck him speechless! Ha ha!" Coyote lifted her out of the dip, then whipped her into another spin as he released her, sending her on a crash course with Ulquiorra. Unfortunately, Ulquiorra didn't take his hands out of his pockets quickly enough, and she slammed into him, shoulder-first. Dazed from the spin, she raised her hand to his chest for leverage to push herself backwards.

And froze.

The moment she touched him, every muscle in his body tightened like a bowstring, and the hand he'd just reached to her other elbow to steady her clamped down so hard she feared she was going to break it. She quickly glanced up, and saw that his eyes were staring at nothing straight over her shoulder, wide and unfocused. It was an expression that looked so foreign on him, she could only recognize it because of how often and how deeply she had felt it herself over the past days.

He's panicking, she realized, startled, not knowing what to do and not wanting…whatever this was to snap into violence if she made the wrong move. Why?! What could possib–

She looked at her hand…inches below the space she knew, she knew was carved out beneath his jacket.

He's…he's… Could arrancar even have flashbacks?† Regardless, her hand coming anywhere near the space his heart had been had clearly caused this.

This is my fault, she thought sadly, feeling the terrible tension of his being like a thing on her skin. I should never have listened to Coyote.

Very, very slowly, she lifted her hand off of his jacket and slid it down to the hand bruising her other arm. "It's okay," she said, barely above a whisper so that he would be the only one that heard. "It's okay. That's never going to happen again. I won't let it happen again." She kept her voice in the tone she used to talk to spooked animals. The grip crushing her elbow spasmed. Gently, she pried the fingers off her arm, not finding any resistance to doing so.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, meaning it desperately. "I'm so sorry."

Before she could look up to his face to see if he was pulling it together, she heard Coyote's voice snap in the air. Her focus had been so tense, so narrowed into the small window of the incident between her and Ulquiorra, that even at normal speaking volume the god's voice may as well have been a bullhorn, and she jumped back from Ulquiorra like a guilty child.

"My dear carrot girl, if you would take a moment from whispering sweet nothings to our pale friend, there is someone else here to meet you," Coyote said, his voice oozing a knowing appreciation for just how awkward the situation was for her.

She turned back to Coyote to see that a strange woman had joined him. She, too, had something of the forest about her, though it struck her in a profoundly different way than it did in Coyote.

Her hair was thick and dark, and it curled in natural waves all the way to her waist. Her pale, pale skin was scrawled in many places with tattoos;* Orihime couldn't tell if they had originally been blue, or had faded to that color from what had once been black. Their scrolling patterns, like complicated braids in some places, like fierce animals in others, were gorgeous works of art. And yet, they also felt dangerous in a way that Orihime couldn't quite understand. Or maybe she is what's dangerous.

Other than the tattoos, the woman was stark naked.* Despite this, there was nothing in her body language that suggested this made her at all uncomfortable. Nor did it strike Orihime as any sort of attempt at temptation or enticement for anyone else's benefit. Instead, the confidence and power she radiated was in direct opposition to everything Orihime had thought she'd known about nudity, in public or in private. She is a woman armored in her own flesh. There was something about it that Orihime found both inspiring and absolutely terrifying.

"Little precious," crooned Coyote, "this stunning creature is the Morrigan.*" Orihime distinctly took note that, while he stood close to the woman, and motioned to her with both hands, he did not actually touch her while doing so; curious, as Coyote seemed to feel it quite appropriate to touch her as much as opportunity allowed.

While Orihime tried to get her mouth to produce a smile, or even to say hello, the Morrigan just stared at her. Glared, really, and though she was utterly silent, Orihime thought the woman's opinion was deafening: "I am not impressed." She had not felt this level of disapproval from even the mystery voice that had chastised her in her own head. Unconsciously, she squared her feet as that voice had prompted her earlier, when facing Ulquiorra, but still found it nearly impossible to return the woman's gaze.

"In any case," said Coyote loudly, flipping a hand into the air, "we have not been invited to your performance, carrot girl. Nevertheless, we wished to, at last, lay our eyes upon you, the little anomaly that has made our journey possible. Your chieftain allowed us to greet you before you made your way to the…honored guests." There was something wry in the way Coyote said the word, but Orihime couldn't read anything into what he meant.

"It-it was a pleasure to meet you," she stammered out, remembering that she hadn't supposedly met Coyote before now. "It's an honor to meet you both." She couldn't think of what else she could possibly say that might be appropriate. "But…" her eyes slid to Ulquiorra, who was staring at the doorway to the main throne room, as collected and blank as he normally was, as if he had never lapsed in it. "I don't think it's wise for me to keep Aizen-sama waiting any longer."

"Ha!" barked Coyote. "Fair enough, precious. We will meet again." He said the last statement with a smirk that was no doubt heavy with subtext, and Orihime tried not to let her trepidation and annoyance at the prospect show on her face. As he casually swaggered away, whistling a tune she did not recognize, she realized that the Morrigan had vanished. She had only just started to process this when she noticed that Ulquiorra had strode down the rest of the length of the room, and was about to pull open the door, and she hurried to catch up.

When the inner door was pushed open, her eyes fell immediately upon the throne, as she was sure the architects of this place had intended. Aizen was seated there, as she knew he would be, one hand propped almost indifferently against his chin and an elbow leaning against the edge of the throne's arm. On either side of him were the Shinigami Captains that had participated in his coup, a study in opposites if ever there was one; dark-skinned Tousen standing at rigid alert, pale Gin lounging against the wall with a foxlike smile that would rival even Coyote's.

But the throne, even in combination with Aizen's manifest presence, had no hope of holding her attention for very long; at least, not in any room where guests such as these were in attendance.

To the right of the throne stood a group of figures, all not just facing her direction, but zeroed in on her arrival as if they had known exactly when to expect her entrance through the great doors. At the very front of this group—almost a crowd , in truth—stood a man that was easily the most beautiful creature she had ever seen in her life. He's breathtaking, was the only thought in her head, and it chased itself around and around. After a few seconds, she realized she had indeed started holding her breath.

Hair that was as pale and as luminous as a full moon cascaded down his shoulders, framing a face with such a fine-boned structure that she felt ugly and awkward just gazing upon it. Despite this, she couldn't see any delicacy in his features. They were perfect in the truest sense of the word, but solid, hard, unyielding. He was like a being hewn from marble by the greatest of artists—exquisite and stone.

It was a shame that such a gorgeous man was looking at her with such a particular glare of disgust.

"Ah, Inoue-san," said Aizen, holding one hand out at her in a gesture of acknowledgement. "Our guests have been eagerly awaiting your presence." Orihime could not tell if the comment was a subtle rebuke towards her, a subtle mocking of the strange attentiveness of the visitors, or just a comment.

Not knowing how to properly respond, she said only, "Yes, Aizen-sama." The small smirk that graced his face afterwards was enough to tell her that, whatever else, acknowledging his authority was always the 'safe' thing to do when in doubt.

"Sonneillon," said Aizen, though the group's leader did not turn to face him. "This is Inoue Orihime. She is the one I will task with the…restoration of your legions."

The angel stared at her, all silence and perfect stillness as if Aizen hadn't spoken, until he leaned forward and cocked his to the side slightly, like some great bird examining a writhing insect.

"This?" His voice was strange, and it made her take a reflexive step back in equal parts confusion and fear. It was..layered, as if he was speaking with several very different voices at once, precisely overlapped in a strange harmony that grated on her ears.

It was not clear if he did not register her discomfort, or did not care for its existence in the slightest, and he took a few slow steps towards her, tilting his head in the opposite direction and examining her as if she were some curious grotesque, or a carton of milk on the verge of spoiling. She instinctively backed up until Ulquiorra's unmoving presence behind her left her nowhere to flee.

"Such a frail human woman, who possesses neither the proper knowledge nor understanding of the universe. And yet, such a pathetic example of a pathetic experiment has the ability to defy God," Soneillon sneered down at her, his disgust with her palpable. "The satire of the cosmos." She wondered what he would've done if her powers had required her to touch him.

Unlike the other creatures she had encountered in Heuco Mundo, the fallen angel did not even attempt to make eye contact with her. Orihime did not fool herself that it was for any other reason than that he considered it beneath him. It did, however, allow her to glimpse his eyes without fear of his gaze, which were as pale and faintly luminescent as his hair. When she realized he wasn't blinking them—at all—she shivered unconsciously.

As she looked away from his radiant and displeased face, she finally recalled the presence of the others in his group; she had been so focused on Sonneillon, she had somehow forgotten about everything else in the room.

Her eyes swept over them now, and found them to be cornucopia of colors and shapes, united only by being wrought in the same unnatural perfection as their leader. One had skin as dark and smooth as ebony, the white sclera of his eyes standing out in stark contrast against his face. Another was pale as milk, another burnished bronze. Their eyes were emerald, sapphire, amethyst, obsidian, axinite,† gold, and opal, round and almond-shaped; their hair was short and long, fine and textured, dark and light. There were even women among them, though they wore only the same white cloth around their hips as the men, and their legs, arms, and abdomens were just as perfectly toned.

Thirty in all stood facing her, each as unique and beautiful as a crystalline snowflake, in all the shades of humanity.

But they were not human.

This was, perhaps, the single most disturbing thing about them. Despite their downright archetypically human features, she had never felt a presence so alien…and hostile. It isn't just that they aren't human, she thought. Coyote wasn't ever a human either. But he…how could she describe it? When Coyote spoke of humans, it was like a person speaking of their favorite game, or the plot of an interesting book—he existed fundamentally outside of them, and yet was simultaneously part of their existence.

But when Sonellion looks at me, it feels like the only purpose to my existence is as an insult to him personally.

"Inoue-san," said Aizen. "Ulquiorra has told you what my orders are?"

Orihime could still feel the arrancar's silent presence behind her, a heavy shadow blocking the panicked escape she so desperately wished she was strong enough to make. "Yes, Aizen-sama."

"Then by all means," Aizen said, gesturing towards Sonneillon. "Commence the demonstration."

There were a few tense seconds where Orihime didn't know if she was supposed to approach him, and she cringed at the thought of having to walk behind him where he stood, to work while surrounded by the rest of his legion. However, after only a few moments of his unblinking gaze, Sonneillon crossed his arms and turned his back to her.

Before that moment, Orihime had never put too much thought into what the back of a Fallen Angel would look like. When Ulquiorra had told her that she was expected to restore one's wings, she had assumed that she would be faced with smooth, unblemished skin—as if the most distinguishing mark of what it meant to be an Angel had never been present. She had been expecting a loss that made the fallen angels look human—look…less, at least in their own estimation. Failing that, she supposed it would not have been out of place to expect the knobby stumps where the appendages had been removed, blunt and rounded like the stump of a cat's tail that had sat too close to the rocking chair as a kitten.

Nothing in her imagination, or even her fantastical nightmares, had prepared her for the sight that awaited her when Sonneillon turned his shoulder.

The Angel's wings had not been magicked out of existence, or surgically removed, or even sliced away. They'd been torn from him—wrenched and pulled as one would rip apart and chew a chicken wing. Jagged, broken nubs of exposed bone rose from between his shoulder blades, the shards poking out unevenly as if they had been crushed and splintered and never knit back together.

And they were bloody, so bloody, as if they had just been freshly torn while she watched. Curiously, the blood that smeared his shoulders and the broken remnants of his wings did not drip to the floor, or run down his hips and back, but neither did it crust or congeal.

It is a forever-open wound, never healing, never becoming less painful with time, she realized. It was like looking at a physical manifestation of eternal agony.

The foot that had been about to start forward nearly stumbled when her mind touched upon the concept of "forever-open wound." Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she suddenly realized how…close one could consider it to a Hollow's hole.

But no, she thought firmly, gathering herself and walking towards him. The hollow hole is an absence of desperate choice. The cutting away of profound pain, an amputation of a rotten, festering limb. She glanced back at Ulquiorra to see if he was following, her eyes surreptitiously landing on his chest. For hollows, the agony is relieved when their heart is gone. Here, the pain is in the loss itself. The punishment is the loss itself.

Punishment, her mind repeated as she drew closer to what could only be described as gore. I hope I never know a crime that warrants this kind of justice.

And, if this butchery was justice…what did that make her? The girl that was about to negate it?

"I want to see it," he hissed at her. She glanced up to see that he had turned his head over his shoulder, further than he should have been able to without breaking his neck, and was glaring down at her with pale, unblinking eyes. "I want to see the power of a human to defy God." Within his voice was the deep timber of a large man, the flowing melody of a woman, the high pitch of a child, each of them putting as much emphasis on their revulsion of humanity as possible.

They lost their wings for defying their god, she thought, raising her hands. And here I am, defying him too. What will be taken from me? What was not already taken?

She took a deep breath. This is madness.

"Sōten Kisshun," she said. "I reject."

Author's Note 2: Regretfully, I had to break what was one chapter into two, because it was getting really, really unwieldy. That being said, the second chapter is almost done but for one section—breaking them up also allowed me to get this part out first without holding it up any longer than it already has been.

High fives and shout-outs to reality deviant, StrangerInAStrangeWorld, Ero-kun, necro-wulf, Manic Dogma, Sage of wind Dragons, Odysseus2099, dragonlayer, aqueladstro, Xoroth, Memories-of-the-Shadows, boyo77, nhokjoon, digiwriter1392, a particular thank you to Boar Rushes Down The Mountain, who pointed out that I've been mixing up "Mayuri" and "Kurotsuchi" (somehow I got it in my brain that Mayuri is his surname. I have no excuse!), and of course perkisaur. Thank you also everyone who has favorited, alerted, read, or clicked on this story. Again, I am so, so sorry about the long absence. My plan to become independently wealthy so that I can do this full time hit a snag when I realized that I'm too lazy for bank robbing.

As always, all comments, questions, and critiques welcomed, encourage, and embraced. I will SERIOUSLY try to answer questions this time—PMs usually get answered faster if you really want the answer to a question.

Huzzah!

Mythology Notes:

Walkabout: A spiritual (and physical) journey through the wilderness undertaken by Australian Aborigines, usually as a rite of passage for young men, and usually in solitude. Renji is

Chaos of the sea at storm: Any guesses as to who she is? On the one hand I'm not sure I've dropped enough hints, on the other hand I feel like someone out there probably already knows.

Fallen Captain: She's talking about Sonneillon. You know, some of the weirdest thoughts I have writing this story are when I come across questions like, "What would God X call God Y if they were talking about them to a third party?" I don't know where Sonneillon falls (bad-um ching) in the fallen-angel hierarchy in terms of military leadership, or if "captain" would be a legit ranking, but who's to say Mystery Goddess would know, either? So, just take this as a generic term for a leader that Mystery Goddess is using for Sonneillon.

Tatoos/Naked: There are several incidents, documented by the Romans, of Celt tribes fighting naked and covered in blue tattoos, presumably to intimidate their enemies with both their absence of fear and their badass magic markings. As The Morrigan is a Celtic War Goddess currently in the middle of a foreign realm among a bunch of (other) chaotic gods, I felt that it was likely she'd want to roll in with her game face on—a game face that says, "Fuck all of you, I am so not afraid of you I will walk around naked in this bitch."

Story Notes:

Lack of Results: In the confrontation between Ichigo and Ulquiorra in the manga, Ulquiorra tells Ichigo something along of lines of "my eyes see everything, and what they cannot see does not exist." In this story, he has now been challenged with a mystery of sorts: Orihime, a physically weak (relative to himself) girl of questionable emotional fortitude has, of all things, the strength to withstand an emotional trauma that broke him on a level so profound he did the next best thing to unmaking himself. All this staring is about him trying to pinpoint, on a "real," level, where this strength is coming from, and not being able to "see" it. I thought it was an appropriate tie-in with his manga-verified Nihilism.

Flashbacks: Ulquiorra has a touch of PTSD over the experience of remembering all the terrifying shit that he purposefully excised from his being precisely because it was something he couldn't deal with. This is not to say he remembers everything perfectly—he doesn't. He had flashes when Orhime's hand got close to the hole, which was what started everything in the first place, and had his own silent freak out. This rather human condition is a side effect of having recently re-experienced having a heart, and it hasn't had time to fade yet.

What he does know/remember is that Orihime did not make the same choice, which is why he's suddenly all about staring at her (see above).

Axinite: It's a brown gemstone. I was trying to include gemstones for all the colors human eyes can normally be, but most brown gem stones we're familiar with are variants of others that have a more color association, so I had to dig a little deep. I was going to go with Tiger Eye, but…I didn't want to say their eyes were tiger-eye.