Where am I?
Thoughts hazy and silken, she opened her eyes and saw—
darkness.
So she awoke in it, became reacquainted with it, that age-old familiar feeling of trepidation sapping veins and arteries before finally taking root in the mind. Slowly, her senses stretched out, spread out, futilely seeking something, anything, only to grasp at nothing.
Nothing… she found herself drowning in it.
There was no ground beneath her feet, and yet she wasn't falling. There was no air to impel lungs, and so they lay dormant like the rest of her being. She felt entombed in the demonic vestiges of an alchemised body that too would disappear. Sink into shadows and fade into naught—poof, gone—as if it had never existed at all.
In a world beyond worlds, she soon discovered, there was no time, no air, no illusory distinctions, and no existence.
There was no life.
There was no death.
Only a paradox of reality. It violated the ecumenical law governing the universe since genesis, since the first reincarnation, since syncretism. Since—
Since….
The thought vanished.
Around her nothing stretched and stilled, began and ceased, and there she remained, wholly confused and increasingly petrified.
Waiting, longing, for—
For something.
At some indefinite moment there came an ember, a flicker of light, whizzing past and circling what she imagined was her head. She tried to reach for it with arms she wasn't entirely certain were even there. Swift, the ball of light easily evaded. Whirled 'round and 'round, left her sickly and pale—could she still turn pale?—before finally stilling, shifting in and out of focus and revealing itself to be a violet butterfly. Delicate and fluorescent, it danced before her eyes rejuvenated and flawless. With a flirtatious invitation to play, it slowly fluttered forward.
She unwittingly moved, or so it seemed, following after it.
And just like that she was relegated to a mere marionette in some satiric, cosmic play. The butterfly blinked out of existence, vanished, a disappearing act amidst twilight mist. In its place double doors instantly appeared, one act segueing into another. Ornately built by a master architect, fashioned entirely of white jade, they were made dauntingly tall and adorned with decorative carvings so life-like they appeared stolen from corpses. She saw men immortalised in battle, jousting in the sky and rebelling down below, winged and terribly majestic, painting an image of apocalyptic awe and dread.
The doors beckoned out to her, the images shifting. Pulsing like a living heartbeat.
Compelled, hands—her hands—reached out for the gleaming metal handles. The doors clicked, slowly swinging open.
Embodied, Rukia suddenly found herself in the centre of a billionworld universe. Below her feet spanned interstellar clouds, colossal mounds and peaks made of infinite violet, azure and golden hues, glowing bright and corralled by starlight prisons. For a moment she thought she would fall into them, sink and disappear with a-shudder, but her feet felt strangely rooted and solid as if standing on ground and not thin air.
Slowly she turned and surveyed the unfolding scene with wide eyes and parted lips. Beyond an invisible dais an infinity's worth of stars surrounded her, evenly arrayed in all directions, suspended like jewels of burnt silver and glittering. Fading outlines of indefinite shapes and spectral doors fashioned out of vapour petered in and out of existence on the wide open space, a vast cauldron of purple-grey and dimming lights and angles.
Rukia watched on curiously as a soft lilac outline of an apple rolled towards her before it too disappeared under her feet. Shortly after another stretch of light appeared. Like a slithering snake, slowly creeping, it lazily ascended high into midnight space. Her gaze tilted upward, watching it fade into oblivion just as a violet snowflake slowly fell before her eyes. Mesmerised, she reached out to touch it.
"Hello."
With a startled gasp she instantly turned around, seeking a source, mind racing and convulsing considering potential threats and additional obscurities. Her eyes scanned around her wildly, again and again as the great expanse of space began to swim, turned topsy-turvy, before finally landing on something that hadn't been there seconds previously.
Fighting against the sensation of vertigo, blinking away delirium and frenzy, Rukia warily stared at a perfectly white porcelain mask suspended in mid-air.
Fashioned as if from classical antiquity, from a time in which men immortalized gods in physical bronze and marble white. Slowly she noted the masculine contours, the noble line of the nose, the high cheeks and cupid bow lips; they eclipsed even the foremost exemplars of Praxitelean beauty and grace.
Rukia dimly wondered whether a living face was the source behind the floating simulacrum, imagining the man of blood and flesh to be unbearably, unbelievably, beautiful. And yet rather than shy veneration, she found herself suppressing a growing tremor as black hollow eye sockets stared at her. Like two shadows slithering across the non-existent floor—charcoal, deadened, eerie things—weaving their way across every inch and plane of her exposed ivory skin before delving deep underneath, stringing her up with invisible marionette threads. Spine stiff and unnerved, Rukia struggled to remain upright, on the verge of crumbling prostate on hands and knees under some indiscernible, oppressive force tugging away at her being.
Some foreign, indomitable will.
"W-who are you?" she asked after a nervous gulp, hands fretfully tugging at her shihakushō's sleeves, Sode no Shirayuki curiously missing from her hip. She didn't think she was gazing upon a threat, and yet she couldn't help but remain guarded.
"I… am."
The voice enveloped her, penetrated deep into her core and left her feeling both numb and hot. It boomed eternal and majestic, greater than the immaterial seraphim, more sacred than the angelic hosts. Suddenly vibrating—burning—she shuddered in response to that deep, melodious echo as her body unwittingly reacted to some unspoken call, on the verge of erupting all bright and crimson as if on a sacrificial pyre.
With a shaky exhale, she took a moment to find her bearings, playing the response over and over in her head. She considered the lack of any revelatory answer and somehow knew that was all she would receive.
"What is this place?" she tried instead, risking several furtive glances at the interstellar scene, violet-grey outlines lazily fading in and out of existence with nary a care in the world.
"This… is the heart of creation."
The heart of… what now?
"I'm dreaming. I must be," she whispered aloud, eyes glazing over in a dizzy daze.
"Awake… in dreams… is there really… any difference?"
Rukia didn't know what to say to that. The eccentric mystery and otherworldly intrigue surrounding her left her feeling utterly drained. She found her mind freezing over, thoughts pooling into half-melted icicle drops. Drip, drip, she could scarcely manage a word or two out.
With slow, disordered movements she ventured towards the apparent edge of the oval dais. The white mask remained in her periphery and she saw it slowly turn, heavy gaze trailing after her. Her skin prickled, turned even hotter, even as an icy tremor came over her.
It was a contradiction of extremes that left her nearly breathless.
Shaking her head and stilling feverish flurries, Rukia looked out at the evenly assembled silver stars. Stared and stared, and saw herself infinitely reflected in them. A reflection in a reflection in a reflection; each star reflected all the others, and contained within itself all the reflections of all the others. No matter where her sight went, she perceived herself infinitely on the dais in every single shining jewel.
She felt faint, yet was transfixed, watching on as slowly the reflection in every single star shifted and morphed. With uncomprehending alarm and confusion, Rukia abruptly perceived herself in an infinite array of time and space as every single star revealed various diverse, inconceivable scenes.
Many were familiar to her—
Kaien-dono's blood on her hands, his body limp and slumped against her tiny form in his final moments.
Ichigo grasping tightly onto Sode no Shirayuki as she thrust the blade into his chest, her power made his.
Crucified and suspended in air as a colossal bird of fire stared her down.
Byakuya nii-sama taking a blade for her, right above the heart.
A flash of brilliant light as she released her Bankai for the first time, her surroundings left frozen in an eternal white.
The world crumbling and deteriorating around her as she screamed her disbelief and despair… with no one to hear it.
Aizen stilling her blade, staring down at her with a hard, cutting gaze.
In the great expanse, she bore witness to every single moment of her life. And then there were scenes wholly unfamiliar, pulled from various foreign and contradicting scripts, depicting moments incomprehensible; the strange, uncanny, impossible and fantastical—
A Captain's haori enveloping her petite frame as she entered the First Division's barracks, honour and duty weighing heavily upon her mind.
Running across green open fields with Ichigo at her side, a scowl marring features that unwittingly turned soft the moment she took his hand.
Aizen's grip unforgiving and tight around her throat, manic purple eyes and white irises staring at her with all the world's fury and hate.
A small, red-headed girl laughing alongside her, eyes violet and all too familiar, Renji with a smile of his own watching on quietly from afar.
Bare and floating in blue crystal waters as streams of crimson blood surrounded her, tears imperceptible and melding into the surrounding currents.
Her blade drawn and approaching the Quincy leader, his blonde second—and Uryū too—white-hot flames burning in her eyes and a promise of death on her tongue.
Dancing a masquerade waltz, spinning and twirling in her unknown partner's arms, the only discerning features his pale silver hair and a pair of dusty lavender eyes that burned for her.
Naked in Aizen's embrace and straddling him, hips rising and falling and rolling as they moved in tandem at the edge of a grand fountain and surrounding pool, movements desperate and open-mouthed kisses tainted by an enduring melancholy.
Lying on a shattered marble floor in a dress of silk and white, a red gaping hole where her heart would be, eyes dim and unseeing in death.
Wheat fields as far as the eye could see, raven locks and long white dress dancing softly in the breeze under a golden afternoon sun, and a man in white waiting for her in the distance.
"What…?! What the hell is this?!" she hotly demanded, whirling with furious flurry towards the porcelain face, now smiling curiously, conspiratorially, at her.
Revelling in veiled secrets and playful—malicious—gestures and intents.
"This… is a recollection of knowledge of all objects of past, present, and future. Of ends untold and possible worlds. Of alternating timelines, competing destinies and parallel realities. Here you see all that has come to pass, all that could have been and what may yet come to be… in this universe… and the next."
Her body violently trembled as she breathed deep, exhaling rushed mouthfuls of air. Of deepened, dreaded mystery and disbelief. Her vision swam, her mind fogged, and acid soon coated her oesophagus shut, a sickening, choking feeling leaving her undone.
"I… I don't understand…," she barely managed out.
The mask merely stared at her, almost pitying.
"Know… and remember… that the future remains in flux. Undetermined. And one lone, apparently insignificant choice… can have colossal consequences."
The violet butterfly from earlier fluttered across her gaze. Rukia absently stared at it, the implications of his words lost on her even as they engraved themselves deep in her heart.
The stars continued to show her a myriad of different scenes, one after another after another until eventually they all bled and merged into each other, indistinct and unexpectedly all too elusive. She gripped at her skull as it throbbed painfully at the unforgiving onslaught. Her mind reeled. Was swept away and tossed into a vast celestial chaos, left to wander forever amidst untold religious chimeras.
Looking to ground herself, Rukia stared beseechingly at the midnight void, at the spaces in between the cosmic web of glittering jewels, hoping to still the frenzy taking place in her head. And there, in between the unfolding scenes she saw further jewels still, only they were dull and black like ebony beads, blending into the midnight background of empty space.
Her mind finally began to still as she sought them out, staring at them curiously.
"What are those?"
"Man's will. His hopes, wants, desires and dreams. The source and inspiration… behind every choice made."
"Why are they so dark?"
The mask didn't reply for a long moment. "They… remain hidden from me."
Rukia mulled that over and thought he sounded genuinely aggrieved. Affronted; the situation palpably distasteful and in dire need of correction. She looked at him with large, puzzled eyes, saw the cool indifference veiling internal maladies, before turning back to the black jewels shining, ironically. Shining all too hopeful and sombre. Calling out to her in hopes she would see them, acknowledge them.
Embrace them.
Rukia felt their pull and was drawn to one in particular, its call like a warm burst of morning light more brilliant than all the rest. She reached out for it, just as a door appeared before her in a puff of violet smoke. Swallowing a yelp of alarm, she tentatively grasped for the handle after a drawn out pause and opened it to a glowing iridescent tempest, shining bright and inviting.
The pull was stronger now, as if a burning red cord had wrapped itself tight around her, tugging every point of her figure forward, soundlessly beseeching. Like a moon falling into the sun's orbit, she knew there was no escape.
Looking back, she saw the mask looking at her with an expression that read forlorn and disappointed.
Did he… not care for her choice?
As if in response to her silent thoughts, he spoke once more. "The depths of man's heart are elusive and unknown. Consider carefully… the path before you. There is no telling what truths you will find… and you may not be able to contend… with what awaits."
There was displeasure and warning underlying every word, even as his tone remained even and stoic. Rukia nodded and felt the red thread's tug once more, couldn't deny it. Escape it.
She had made a decision, and she would keep to it.
Taking step after step forward into the twinkling light she felt all the more at peace, felt all the more secure in her choice. And before her she foresaw a world that overcame sorrow and death and the aftermath of tragedy. A world that was made unmarked and whole—oblivious to decay and ugly. A world made free, released from the shackles of torturous destiny.
In an ideal world….
Rukia knew she had chosen right.
At the edge between realms she paused one last time to turn and look back upon her furtive and mysterious stranger. The mask stared at her against a backdrop of brilliant nebulae and shining stars, suddenly appearing all too jaded and alone. The suffocating miasma lasted only a second before it vanished—vanquished—and forever-ever gone, leaving her to wonder whether she'd ever seen it at all.
Rukia hesitated only a moment before turning back around and disappearing through the phantom door, instantly swallowed by an explosion of white.
. . .
She hadn't known what to expect, but the sight before her wasn't quite what she imagined.
The call of light had promised her deliverance and glowing warmth.
All Rukia saw was a world of night and shadows.
Before her was an ethereal forest bathed in partial moonlight. Overhead, dense scattered clouds veiled half of a full ivory moon. Surrounded by pale moths and jousting fire flies, night-bathed petals cried sere in the heat of wilt. The swishing of leaves, the chirping of crickets and the quiet trickle of a stream called out to her, the trail ahead adorned with lilac-white irises and purple asters. The further she walked the more peaceful the scene turned, air dispelling sound like an incantation by breezy gods.
In her aimless, awe-spun wandering she soon came across a wide pristine pond, its centre burnt with the white light of a fractured moon and reflecting back all the colours in the world like a looking-glass.
Mirror, mirror.
Beneath the shadowed depths, bright geometric outlines and shapes stretched, contracted and rotated, languidly ascending to the surface. When they reached the water's periphery, they gently burst like miniature stars exploded. And from the glowing hail and splashes of haphazard light strokes unfurled the most flawless of lotus blossoms. In full bloom and pearlescent pink, they floated serenely under the delicate moonlight.
It was a beautiful sight, Rukia mused with a content sigh as she sat near the water's edge, enjoying the dreamy spectacle as fireflies danced around her.
If only the humidity in the air wasn't so damn near unbearable.
A soft rustle and a gasp pulled her out of her reverie. Instantly alert Rukia shot up, the little balls of light jittering around her in annoyance and rue at the erratic, ungraceful motion. Scanning the vicinity, her eyes landed on a tall figure across the pond.
It was a man, all gossamer and refined and scholarly lines, donned in a long flowing hanfu of fading whites and greys. Long sleeves fluttered gently, layers and robes melding into the shadows like wispy tails of smoke streams. His hair was a flowing curtain, long soft threads of spun silver that danced in the wind and brushed the ground. His skin was pale and snow, glowed like moonlight fainting at the brink of dawn, handsome features unmarred by neither wrinkle nor flaw. And wrapped around his eyes, hidden from view, was a single band of greying silk.
"How…?!" he began in shock but trailed off, voice like the softest trickle of water. Dropping any and all enquiry, he watched her quietly instead, guardedly, the blindfold proving nary an obstacle.
Rukia suddenly felt all too out of place. All too much like an intruder, encroaching upon something private and sacred.
I shouldn't be here.
Realising her folly, inhaling the fine dust of pollen and midnight breeze, she bowed low in apology, years of imparted etiquette and the weighty warmth of late-summer mist overwhelming her.
"Please, forgive the intrusion," she offered with utmost sincerity before standing upright once more. "My name is Kuchiki Rukia. Who… are you?"
The figure didn't reply. With a quick flick of the wrist he snapped open a plain white folding fan and brought it before his face, just above the delicate tip of his nose. And there he remained, a floating effigy, quietly watching her.
"I… I guess I'll be off then," she offered awkwardly, all too cognisant of the fact she knew not where she was or how she could leave.
Turning around, she thought to venture back the way she came. Took a step, and froze.
A muffled cry broke the silence.
Spinning around she searched for a source. "What was that?"
The pale figure predictably remained closed off, quiet and elusive. Though Rukia noted the sudden lines of rigid unease across his shoulders, along with the barely imperceptible shifts to his left.
"Is someone there?"
No answer, and another cry pierced the void.
Overhead, thick clouds had completely enveloped the moon. The world below was thrown into swathes of inky darkness as the moths stilled and the fireflies dwindled into dying embers. Winds and crickets quieted, the waters ceased moving and an invisible chill began to spread like a voracious beast. And across the wide expanse of the pond, lotus blossoms faded into non-existence, became nothing as the water rippled, turned murky, obscure and black.
Rukia felt a tremor of apprehension just as a meek, desperate moan cut the thickened silence, grabbing her attention once more.
"They're in pain," she implored the man, watching him grow paler and white like a euthanised ghost. "You know where they are, right? Please, tell me. Please… we need to help them!"
The fan snapped shut and vanished as he turned towards his side, movements slow and weary and transient in the face of an unfolding nightmare. Beauty died all around them and was turned to waste, putrefying as if on a hot asphalt-field. Was a rotting carcass, maggot filled and rancid. Diseased. Poisoned.
The poison was in the heart.
Slowly fading out of sight, hand pressed in muted supplication over his beating chest, he bowed low and reverent towards a trail behind a thick of leaves and drooping irises.
Rukia didn't waste a second. Quickly she crossed the distance and ventured down the shadowed path, battling and pushing aside a steadily building brush and unforgivably dense overgrowth. Thorns and twigs scratched at her, left a mishmash of deep and shallow cuts across her hands, face and skin as if in warning, in rebuke. As if punishing her overzealous insolence. Vines pushed her back and cursed her silently: stay away.
Rukia ignored the thousand stings and strikes, dismissed the words of warning and pushed through with a burning passion. An ice-wrought resolve—called free choice of the will—that sung fierce and true with every exhale. Cold air breathed down her back as she tore away at the thick, matted foliage and ever-growing thorn-laced weeds. Blood flowed freely in snake streams down fingers and burst from wrists, violent crimson splatters marring the cobbled path like stigmata prints.
She ignored the pain, strangled its progression and pushed through with all her might. Screamed her resolve loudly into the air, turned her lungs dry and made her throat raw, until finally—finally!—a clearing came into view.
At the crux of four pillars and at the apex of a pool, an altar stood proud and beautiful, forged of white marble and adorned with pink-sand acanthuses. To its left there was death—and all the world's ugly—to its right the blessed promise—of everlasting life—and at its base sat a huddled figure, head bent low and drawn in on themselves away from the world.
Rukia steadied her laboured breaths as she slowly hobbled towards them, enervation weighing heavily on her bones. Ceaseless scarlet rivulets continued to poor from her wrists, leaving a trail of blood and sacrificial whims in her midst. She kneeled beside them and bowed her head, ignored her mangled wrist and placed a consoling hand upon a broad, masculine back. Felt the thin white silk and watched it absorb the scarlet testament of her hard-fought will.
"What is it? What's wrong?" she whispered with all the compassion in the world.
The man released a shaky breath, choking back dry desert-sobs as his body shook with untold despair and hurts. Rukia rubbed his back with slow soothing strokes, silent and waiting.
Slowly, he turned towards her.
"God is dead."
She blinked, considered the words spoken by a voice deep and familiar yet tarnished by layers of tired anguish and lament. Unease and foreboding turned her blood cold. Slowly, he raised his head and she gasped.
It couldn't be!
"Aizen?!"
Shock and horror coated her throat as his blood-shot eyes latched onto hers. Tightly, he grabbed her around the arms, fingers digging painfully into pliant alabaster skin. Held her gaze even as he stared straight through her—unseeing, unblinking—pupils screaming his mania and frenzy.
"A-Aizen?! What… what's wrong?! Tell me!" she cried out in alarm, attempting to reach out for him beyond the shackles of his hold.
Is this not what you wanted? a voice inside her head spoke, piercing the dense mist of shock with a mocking tone.
Is this not what you chose to see? The truth so fastidiously veiled? The heart obscured, beyond all understanding and reach?
Rukia shook her head. Yes… she'd vowed to better understand him, that was true, but not like this.
Not like this!
Afflicted, on the cusp of an endless, moribund descent, Aizen unravelled before her eyes.
"God is dead!" he repeated with growing urgency, his grip turning ablaze and excruciating as she exhaled a vicious cry.
And something was crashing in the distance, bleeding and coming undone. The world dropped from its clavicle-pedestal and she fell along with it, right over a precipice.
Aizen's words were the last thing she grasped before everything shattered.
"God is dead! And we have killed him."
. . .
With wide and frantic eyes, Rukia emerged upon the deceased, midnight plains swathed in sweat beads and pooled over dreams.
Body violently throbbing and trembling from fears and tears as she scrambled upright, taking in the surrounding scene with wild, jerking movements. Looking, searching—
Aizen! Where the hell was he?!
and promptly found him.
Seated cross-legged less than half a meter away, sleeping soundly, head leaning on a closed fist. The dying glow of the hearth cast a faint glow over his features; wholly serene, unblemished by the lingering rot of anguish and recessive madness.
Gasping with unceasing panic, a scream on her tongue, Rukia clamped hasty hands over her mouth. Felt her heart beating wild and erratic, thrashing against the boned cage of her chest as air poured in and out of her lungs in short rapid bursts. Screams and cries she wasn't able to swallow filtered past fingers and filled the silent void like a muffled, underwater chorus.
She tried to still them, tried to temper her terror and horror as she looked upon Aizen's peaceful form. Tried convincing herself that it had all been a nightmare. Utterly meaningless. That it wasn't real. She repeated it to herself over and over but the words rang hollow every single time as she shook her head at what it could possibly mean.
The implications mocked and burned with unforgiving alacrity.
Body reduced to shaking like a lone leaf in a hurricane, rocking back and forth, her tears and gasps turned unremitting. Never ceasing.
It was enough to pull Aizen out of his clueless slumber.
Slowly opening his eyes, he took a moment to assess their surroundings before his gaze fell on her. Saw her on the verge of unravelling completely. Raising his head slightly at the picture of morbid distress she painted he looked upon her with something resembling muted alarm and growing concern.
"Kuchiki—?"
"Are you all right?" she blurted out with a rush, voice guttural and raspy, out of breath and fading into time.
She needed to know he was ok. She needed to know he wouldn't disperse into wafts of smoke weaving beyond her grasp. That he wouldn't lose himself and shatter into a million jagged shards like a tragedy being born. He was the one remaining constant she had left in this world. The only certainty against all else. The days may one day cease, the mountains dwindle and the broken heavens may, at last, heave their final breath. The world could end again and again and again, and he alone would remain.
He would always be there, a steady pillar for her to fall on to.
It was the only remaining truth she held onto. The only truth in the entire rotting world, and she would guard it fiercely.
Aizen paused, looking at her with apparent surprise, her question having caught him completely off-guard.
"Quite," he offered softly as his arm dropped from its upright perch, sleep seemingly no longer an option. "Are you?"
Rukia shook her head. She wasn't. She really, really wasn't. How could she even begin to explain what she had seen? She couldn't even come to grips with it herself, couldn't even recall the magnitude of what had transpired even when it left her all too frightened and breathless. All she had to ruminate over was a glimpse into some thinly veiled macabre sanctuary that could alter the world with invisible threads and an omniscient needle. It polluted thoughts with the lingering scene of a cosmic realm, a strange forest world and the uncanny sight of Aizen Sōsuke; broken, wrenched and dispersed before an empty altar, heart crying out: God is dead.
God is dead.
And we have killed him.
Would he even believe her? Would he think her insane? No, she couldn't tell him, not when he appeared entirely well and at ease. Would not dare burden him with such folly, would not taint him with such a vile omen. Not now, not ever!
"Bad dream," she whispered by way of explanation as she folded into herself, and left it at that.
A long silent moment dragged marred only by her shaky breaths as she stared out at the night-doused plains. And then an elegant cup and saucer appeared before her; china white with wafts of heat dancing above the rim. Rukia stared at it blankly, then down at the hand holding it. Traced the length of the arm and gazed confusedly at Aizen's face.
"I believe an offer of tea is appropriate at such times," he gently said, nudging the cup closer to her when she made no move to take it. "It will help."
Rukia held his gaze a moment longer before silently staring at the cup, reaching for it with slow, disbelieving movements. She could feel its weight; the warm and smooth texture of its surface. She could smell the floral notes of jasmine and chamomile. Could hear the porcelain clatter in her unsteady grip, limbs still shaking uncontrollably. Insignificant little details that amounted to a sensory overload of forgotten mementos of life once-upon-a-time.
And all too none too real.
Gently, she lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. The liquid was perfectly hot and sweet and instantly warmed blood and bones. Like a swift narcotic effect, she allowed herself to be dragged down into a false, gratifying ease.
Thinking of long-lost yester-days.
She swallowed another sip, and another, was overwhelmed, and soon tasted brine along with the sweet florals melding on her tongue. Entirely unbeknownst to her, large tear drops were streaming down her face. Heart sick—homesick—and mind lost, Rukia was reduced to a flower bud on the verge of wilting.
"Sorry," she whispered, miserably wiping away at her cheeks. "Sorry…," when the tears simply would not cease, rolling down fatter and saltier than acid rain.
Amidst her turmoil laced downpour, a hand landed upon her shoulder and back. The gesture was awkward at first, tentative and impalpable, as she felt a few weighted pats. Then slowly they became firmer, more certain, evolving into the gentlest of strokes. They warmed her heart more than any illusive cup of tea ever could.
It was a simple, yet oh so significant gesture, even if he was only going through the motions of what seemed conventional and proper. Was the impossible made actual. And it was exactly what she needed most right now.
Putting aside incredulity, the how and why, Rukia closed her eyes and found a sea of comfort in the warmth of Aizen Sōsuke's touch.
. . .
The first thing Aizen made clear to her at the outset of his teachings was that he had no intention of coddling her.
Rukia would not have had it any other way.
It began with Kidō, a simple instruction to volley every single demon art she knew his way. Rukia had only stared at him with wide, incredulous eyes that questioned his sanity. His response was a deep, self-assured chuckle.
"If you manage to leave a single scratch on me, I will fall to my knees, and call you master," he incited, cavalier and frustratingly carefree.
His smug condescension bristled. Lips a firm line and eyes burning, she threw spell after spell at his tall form. Conjured bindings that fell from the heavens, constrictions that emerged from the earth. Levelled attack after attack, combining Hadō spells into one and weaving in gravity-crushing Bakudō that, by her own hand, would bring him to his knees. Ash and smoke surrounded him, veiling his figure from sight as blasts of lightning and fire, plasma and zephyr, reigned havoc upon the pale dusty mirage. Rukia kept up the assault even as her muscles cramped and her breaths became strained.
Perseverance in the making, commencement and conclusion concealed and congealed together, her veins shuddered bitter and acidic. And yet in her heart she had a burgeoning ache expanding to cover weary limbs and sapping strength. Hadō no 88 sang wildly into the air, the summit of her proficiency, just as she fell. Desperately, she tried to prevent an unceremonious tumble to the ground as her knees collided hard into dust and soot—ironically—pulsing waves of reiatsu thrashing about her like white-smoked snow gust.
Gasping for air, she lifted her eyes to gaze upon the dwindling ashy storm, sweat pouring down her forehead in grains and brooks.
The dust settled and there he stood, unburdened. Unblemished. Not a hair out of place. With bored, unhurried movements he brushed away invisible dirt from his sleeve.
Rukia tried not to collapse fully to the ground in frustration and disbelief. Watched tiredly as he approached her with steady steps, imagining his hand appearing before her face with an offer to ease her up. A word of advice or encouragement—
He glided right past her, the edges of his coat brushing indifferently against her cheek. "If only your aptitude rivalled your fervour. Careful not to overdo it, now."
How foolish.
She would have screamed and cursed his name if her lungs weren't already burning.
Hakuda came next. Rukia lunged at him with open palm strikes and roundhouse kicks. Aimed for his head; revelled in the mental image of her foot colliding with his haughty mien. Tiger claw fists, a mantis strike, a spinning snap kick; every move in her repertoire, everything taught her by the monks who raised her during her youngest years, flowed forth quick and furious.
Aizen merely turned and weaved, ducked and swayed beyond every would-be hit with effortless, incalculable grace. Was a pale white butterfly fluttering unhurriedly through a non-existent breeze. His hands remained folded at his back, seeing no need to counter or attack.
Her skin was radiating from exertion and sweat, matted over by exacerbation and white. With a frustrated cry she drew a wide arc with an open palm, hoping to catch him below the chin. In the blink of an eye he side-stepped and swept her legs from under her. Rukia crumbled to the ground with a yelp, on the verge of blowing away with the all the other paltry, left-over ashes. Now towering above her, she looked up at him with tired, glazed over eyes.
"There are few more pleasing sights in this world, than of you on your knees before me," he derided with a horridly easy smile.
Scrambling away, Rukia swallowed hasty words and mentally cursed him and his self-assured grandeur something vicious.
She fared no better with zanjutsu. He easily parried every blow and strike with sickening ease, her zanpakutō whistling futilely against his. A few words on her footwork and adjustments to her form the only take away from an otherwise dispiriting, embarrassing display.
When they weren't sparring, they resumed their ceaseless passage further into perdition. In a welcome shift, Aizen's lectures filled the silent void. Had her captivated with never-ending verbal streams on the nature of reality, ontology, on theories of knowledge. Of old religions, of life beyond death and transcendent heavens. Often he would leave her to mull over a metaphysical enigma—
Why is there something rather than nothing?
or a koan to puzzle over:
An instant realisation sees endless time.
Endless time is as one moment.
When one comprehends the endless moment
He realises the person who is seeing it.
Rukia was thankful for the distraction, for something to occupy thoughts and time as the world continued to slowly decay around them. And yet she felt altogether aggrieved, dissatisfied. As Aizen waxed poetic, enamoured with the sound of his own voice, she couldn't help but feel like he was toying with her; a petty little trifle to alleviate any blossoming tedium. She had proved scant a challenge to him, only a whisper of amusement. Even though he'd agreed to train her… even though he said he wouldn't go easy on her….
Her ire flared that he'd look upon her as so insignificant. As so beneath him; unworthy of even the barest of honour afforded a fellow warrior.
When they clashed swords once again, his expression was unmistakably bored, his parries lazy and blasé. Almost like he was purposely exhausting time, waiting for their session to finally end or for something more interesting to come about. Rukia could taste the rage on her tongue. Bitter and icy like metal-coated almonds, it clawed at her whilst aiming directly for his organs. With a heart-torn scream she pushed back with her sword and reiatsu as hard as she could. Sent him skidding several meters away and unleashed her frustration loud into the air.
"Stop toying with me!"
She had his attention now. With wordless surprise, he stared at her from across the ashy grounds.
"I said I wanted to learn from you! Whatever I may think about what you once did, that doesn't change the fact that I respect your abilities. You are capable and knowing… of so damn much. It's as exhilarating as it is terrifying. And I… I just want a chance to grasp at even a small fraction of it! To see just flicker, to taste even a morsel of the wisdom and power you hold."
With laboured breaths, she waited for her words to seep and swell in their potency. To claw their way under his skin. "I know I'm being impudent. I know I have no right to ask. But I thought… for a moment, I really thought…."
Unwittingly her words trailed off as her heart wrenched. She wasn't strong, she knew. She wasn't the challenge he'd always craved. She wasn't his equal and never would be. And despite all that, when she'd asked, he still said yes.
He said yes. He couldn't go back on his word now!
"I know the difference between us is greater than heaven and earth, and always will be. And while you may not care for my shortcomings, don't disregard my conviction. Please, if nothing else… please appreciate and respect my will to be better!"
So her heart cried.
In the growing stillness and silence, Aizen stared at her deep and enigmatic. And suddenly the distance between them seemed all the more pronounced, as if she was standing on a bright, sandless shore with crimson and rolling waves, and he, looking down on her from a pillar white and blind from atop the highest clouds.
A universe away, a millennium to ascend.
"You misunderstand, Kuchiki-san," he began softly, a note of poignancy weaving into his words. "It's not I who doesn't appreciate the magnitude of what you want and ask."
She watched him incomprehensibly as a heavy weight pressed down on her small frame, growing more and more insistent. Unrepentant. What… was he saying?
His eyes locked onto hers. "It's you."
With an ear-splitting boom that fractured the ground, that dispelled air and pierced the highest firmament, Aizen vanished and instantly re-emerged high in the sky above her. Above and beyond the ash-strewn earth—where all rituals and blasphemies had long been laid to rest—figure glowing ethereal and resplendent against the blazing white skies.
The very air around him swam and glimmered as time slowed and stopped. With widening eyes, Rukia saw eternity in a second. Gazed upon him frozen and still: arm across his chest, sword raised above and over his shoulder and poised to come crashing down. The heavens bellowed, on the verge of convergence of rebuke of zenith—
Of suspended reprieve.
Aizen looked down at her with eyes dark and blazing.
MOVE!
Her mind screamed and Rukia was instantly flash-stepping; back and away with a jolting shock spreading electric throughout her veins as he came hurtling down with a strike that shattered the world. And just as swiftly he was moving again, moving so quick she almost didn't catch him darting forward and straight towards her. With wild rapid movements she brought Sode no Shirayuki to a horizontal line above her head as Aizen reappeared with an overhead downward strike.
With both hands she gripped at her sword, absorbing and trying to parry back the force of the blow as the ground splintered below her, air crackling with raw bursts of scorching pressure. She cried, feeling the unforgiving strain tear through her, the bones igniting and knees bending, buckling. On the verge of snapping.
He pressed down harder than what was physically possible and her veins were instantly incinerated. Her mind buzzed, whirred and rotated at a hundred-thousand beats a second. Looking upon his eyes she saw a bottomless abyss; found them chilling and heartless. He looked like he wanted to tear into her flesh and bleed her dry.
He looked like he wanted to destroy her.
"Aizen! That's… that's enough!" she rasped painfully. "S-stop!"
He didn't respond. Rather he unleashed assault after assault, blow after heavy blow, brutally drilling some dire, elusive message—and forewarning, all rolled into one—into her flesh. Rukia tried to deflect and evade the strikes, tried to escape the terrible onslaught coming at her from every angle, only to feel a slice red and hot followed by a painful snap.
A wounded wail tore through her throat, loud and harsh, as she instinctively staggered away from him, holding her broken arm to her bleeding chest.
"For whom do you fight, Kuchiki Rukia?"
She sucked in a deep breath and blocked out his words as she moved further and further away on unsteady feet, heart and head pounding and demanding she get away from him. Everything around her was spinning, fading, going black.
She braced for the onslaught of nausea and vertigo.
"For what reason do you persevere?"
And from the shadows she saw Kaien, swaying unsteadily as he approached her. Blood soaked and haggard, he beseeched her wordlessly with an outstretched hand. Rukia shook her head, denials pouring, weeping, from her lips. When she looked down at her hands they were stained scarlet and she retched her revulsion and anguish.
"Those you held dear are gone. You couldn't find the requisite strength to protect them in life…."
To her right a rush of air, an intensifying whistling like an encroaching hurricane, and down came Ichigo's lifeless body. Careening and crashing hard on the ground with a sickening crunch that left him all the more still and broken. Eyes like burnt amber and sulphur gazed at her lifelessly.
She screamed in horror as a phantom wind whipped her face raw.
"…What do you mean to accomplish now that they are dead?"
Byakuya appeared before her, descending to his knees slow and weightless. Falling apart, turned to wisps and fragmenting like a statue of ash blown into night. Her hand darted forward even as the illusion disintegrated.
Nii-sama…!
"Why?! Why are you showing me all this?!"
She was crying and slipping, falling deeper into hysteria and the lucid, reticent, dissolvent lust of terror.
"Power for power's sake is meaningless. It can only ever be a means to an end," she heard Aizen say from somewhere beyond the veil of shadows. "So tell me what end you seek."
In the unfolding theatre of her mind thick, ominous clouds gathered overhead. Cast down shadows running finger-thin and bruised in black and bluish-grey, dusty and ashy. Rukia looked up just as the skies burst and fire rained down.
I won't let that happen ever again.
"What do you resolve to achieve with your strength?"
The faces of her friends and family flashed before her eyes. Laughing and smiling in life, broken and discarded in death. Then, all too curiously, her mind conjured Aizen's visage; grandiose and glowing at the edges against some great bright expanse. Only for the scene to shatter, revealing his white figure sitting still amidst a wide dark pool, surrounded by shadows, highlighted by a single sphere of silver light. His arms were folded above his bent knees as he stared up at the pale and elusive radiance, his dry red eyes blindly seeking. Entreating in silent prayer. Body branded with incantations and labours that peeled the skin back raw and crimson, all his hard-supressed mortal limits shone stark and visible.
Rukia panicked, burdened with newly erected vows as she dipped into the shallow water, pace growing quick, determined to reach him.
The waters rose, turned deep, creeping up inch by inch like gruesome fingers of molten tar. Her pace strained against the thickening currents rejoicing at holding her back as she called out his name, thrust her hand out to him. Oblivious, Aizen continued to stare at the light above him as the black waters engulfed him whole.
NO!
"What do you want, Kuchiki Rukia?"
I won't … I won't lose anyone ever again!
Emerging from the shadows Rukia cried, Rukia screamed. Focusing all her power and passion and want into Sode no Shirayuki, she sprinted forward for an attack. The wound in her shoulder snapped and snarled, increasing with each agonising movement. Her sword-arm howled, begging reprieve. She pushed the pain to the back of her mind. Aizen's figure loomed ahead, insurmountable. Impenetrable.
Unreachable.
Leaping high, sword raised and coming down lightning-fast, Rukia pierced the air with her heart's declamation singing loud and true. Heard the angels' cry from on high, above the clouds and furthest stars. And as the blade descended she saw, for the briefest of seconds, Aizen's eyes widen in surprise, his pupils dilate. Time stretched and slowed, and just as quickly it was over with.
Aizen raised his own blade and deflected the blow with a wide arc. Sent her flying through the air before she landed on the ground with a sickening thud, tumbling over several times before coming to a still, prone and laid out flat on her front.
Pain bloomed across every inch of her body as her mind went static and her surroundings quiet. The cut in her shoulder was bleeding profusely, soaking the grey earth. She wasn't sure how long she remained there before eventually lifting herself up enough by her good arm to fall back onto knees and shins.
Rukia felt utterly eviscerated, like leftover ashes of an ignited pyre.
Numbly, she watched Aizen crossing the distance and stopping in front of her. She didn't look up at him, eyes dazed and fixated on the ripples of his swaying coat. In one fluid motion he fell to one knee, Kyōka Suigetsu piercing the earth with its tip as he brought the sword down to lean on. Rukia's gaze shifted to it, staring blankly, and for a second she thought the blade hummed out to her; a soft, despondent sound.
She blinked slow and tired and mesmerised before Aizen's other hand reached out to grip her chin, forcing her to look at him. His hold was firm yet careful as Rukia met his dark gaze.
"I believe I already told you once: all perfections are preceded by affliction. The greater their glory and majesty, the greater the cost owed," he began, voice hard yet measured. Words harsh yet enthralling.
"Such is law that has governed the universe since its inception. Something cannot be had for nothing, and so all things must compensate for something else. Like tides, just as something flows in, something must flow out. All things rise and fall, and the pendulum-swing manifests in everything; the measure of the swing to the left, is the measure of the swing to the right."
"It's a truth instinctual, primordial, embedded in the very heart of existence itself. No one can escape it. No one can deny it. Your late Captain-Commander, Kyōraku no Jirō Sakuranosuke Shunsui, sacrificed Unohana Retsu so that the Kenpachi may reach his highest potential. Kurosaki Ichigo sacrificed his powers for one lone skill that, no matter how unrefined and pedestrian, would see me fall."
At that he paused, pupils widening, eyes darkening all the more. They pulled the breath from her lungs like vengeful gravity wells. "I too would know, for the price demanded and paid for immortality, for further heights still, was greater than death."
Rukia's breath shuddered against the heavy stillness. His words had morphed into sharp, searing blades all too ready and on the verge of slitting her deep, waiting for her to run dry.
"Now, understanding that, and knowing what you want, I ask you this: what is the price you are willing to pay?" his gaze held hers unforgivingly and pushed the blade in further. Deeper, right into her throbbing, pounding, heart.
"What… are you willing to sacrifice?"
His words were deliberate, chosen to wound with poisonous precision. Their caustic flavour washed through her and what went unsaid chastised her imprudent ignorance. Even when she had cursed his delusions of divinity she knew it had been out of spite. Deep down, she had always thought him inhumanly perfect, effortless in everything and all. Powerful beyond compare. With sickening ease, she imagined him bringing the very universe to its knees.
With the end of the world Aizen shined as a god in her eyes. A horrible, terrible… yet strangely merciful god.
And in the blink of an optical illusion, the image was gone. The painful ease with which he existed re-wrote itself, no longer deemed honest and true. Now she knew: Aizen had suffered. Endured, perhaps more than anyone—
was God degraded to human shackles, made flesh, the only one left to bear the cross.
He had descended to the deepest depths in order to reach the highest heights.
To be insurmountable… the cost demanded would be nothing short of astronomical.
And to think, she had asked him to bestow upon her the fruits of his sacrifice with such blithe and careless ease. Had thought, for a moment, entitled to them.
How impertinent.
How thoughtless.
How foolish.
Noxious, the wound in her heart refused to heal.
Slowly, Rukia looked down, unwilling to meet his eyes any longer. She wanted to disappear. Her shame smarted like the pulling of limbs, piece by piece. She wanted them hidden away in a casket where they could be left to rot, never to see the light of day again.
"Look at me."
His tone was gentler. Rukia didn't want to. She stared at the ground, praying for an unholy schism to open up beneath her and swallow her whole. At the slight nudge at her chin, she shook her head against his grip, eyes unwittingly watering.
She heard him sigh.
"You stand before a crossroad, Kuchiki-san. There are two choices. I can honour your request. I can push you beyond the point of breaking. Push you further and further still. I can shatter every single bone in your body and burn every last nerve ending to a crisp. I can destroy you and remake you anew, again and again and again, until you are reborn more remarkable than any time before. Or… we forget any of this ever took place, be on our way, and never speak of it again."
Rukia finally looked at him with glassy eyes, the choice weighing heavily upon her slender frame.
"What will it be, Kuchiki Rukia? Do you wish to cease?"
Rukia stared deep into his eyes. Saw within them something pure and sacred and irreversibly doomed. The words of that dreadful omen revealed themselves and echoed in her heart just as they did in her mind.
God is dead.
Rukia wondered whether the choice had ever really been hers and not decided by another aeons ago. She had something to safeguard now, something to protect and fight against. And though she did not fully comprehend it, she answered accordingly.
"No," she whispered, tone watery. Firm and resolute.
A lone, plump tear rolled down her cheek. Aizen stared at her for a moment before his hand left her chin to cup her cheek. With a tender swipe of his thumb, he brushed the lonely drop away.
"Then let us begin," he affirmed slow and reverent, holding out an open palm to her.
Rukia's hand fell easily onto his. With the softest of touches, like the gliding of silk across crystal waters on the verge of shattering, Aizen eased her up. Healing magic poured from his hand and into their hold, flowed through her like an ablution; mending torn muscles and ripped tendons, broken bones and gaping, bleeding gashes. Slowly he absolved her of lingering pains and bruising hurts. Rukia marvelled that a touch so gentle and pure could come from a hand so brutal and cruel.
One hand spun a fairytale, the other a nightmare.
A picture of perfect health once more, Aizen released her hand and retreated several meters. When he turned to look at her once more she felt her limbs reigniting.
He readied his sword, flew straight towards her against the backdrop of bleached white skies. And she saw, for a moment, the looming, gilded archways of Heaven and Hell like a halo at his back.
And she, standing at the precipice of both.
Rukia felt the bruises of a fragmenting whiteness as they ripped through her flesh in a flash. As they tore into her ruthlessly and sent her tumbling, spiralling, into a bright, blinding light.
When she reopened her eyes, she envisioned it was she floating atop those dark, deceptively tranquil currents. Silver light shone down on her like an apparition of white satin nooses. And there was Aizen, standing over her with inscrutable marble features. One hand splayed over her side, long fingers digging into the grooves of her pointed ribs. The other held her by the hip.
Gently, he eased her into the waters. Her lungs burned, her ribs expanded and widened, spine arching violently and feverish in his submerged hold. She gasped—tense, jagged, heavy breaths—as she was brought to the surface once more.
Like a baptismal. An aching rebirth.
Forcing oxygen into her throat, Aizen dragged her out from the deepest depths, resurrecting her for another round.
Just a head's up that this fic is getting bumped up to an M rating in another few chapters. Thank you as always for all the feedback and support, on here and AO3. It's always greatly appreciated!