Alright, okay. So I kinda lied.
The next update isn't Hills, but this has been sitting on my computer for a while. Fourteen pages and almost 7000 words in Word. Ah.
As I mentioned before, if you're interested in seeing the original version of StB the links for the corresponding chapters are on my profile.
The poll for this fic is still up, so please go vote for the pairings you'd like to see. (Although, I kinda already have it planned out as it stands so far. But your opinion is greatly appreciated.) Otherwise, after I receive so many reviews, etc., the poll will be taken down and the pairings set.
I'd like to give a humongous THANK YOU to my wonderful beta AiryAquarius - if you haven't read any of her fics then you don't know what you're missing. Also, another THANK YOU to the Overlord, Sourcer of the Arts, Shadowthorne who gave me some helpful advice on writing Shiro for this fic.
But first, read the next chapter of Sing the Bells!
General Chapter Warnings (trying to cover all bases here so I don't get in trouble): hints of abuse and obsession, hints of persecution/discrimination - basically a good beginner's glimpse at the warped mind of Aizen.
Disclaimer: Alas, I own nothing, except my cruel imagination.
Sing the Bells
Chapter 1: Just To Live One Day Out There
The bells of the Notre Dame cathedral rocked steadily back and forth that morning as they rang a greeting to the day and the city of Paris below. Sunlight poured through one of the old dusty bell towers, casting amazing shadows against the wooden rafters. Golden rays captured the slim figure of the bell ringer as he conducted the morning song. Slender yet strong arms gave one last pull on the roped they before young man used it to slide down to the lower loft, the iron bell's resonant sounds only beginning to fade. He landed solidly on his feet. The flock of pigeons gathered around the floor were scared into flight and kicked up ages of dust with their wingbeats. Following the bright welcoming beams of light that flooded the tower, the bell ringer straightened and walked out to the nearest balcony that overlooked the city square.
A light breeze greeted the young man and danced across his porcelain skin, glimmering with the barest hint of sweat from his daily routine, cooling the flushed tint to his pale flesh. The wind tousled ivory hair, the feathery strands floating loose in the air; the rest of the white locks joining soon after when the bell ringer unfastened the tie holding it back. Clad in dark tunic and hose that clashed greatly with his pallor, the young man casually leaned against the balcony railing between two gargoyles to enjoy the fresh air the day supplied, draping his arms comfortably along the smooth polished stone. Eyes of black and gold flitted about for a while, enjoying the golden warmth of the new-day sun, until the stopped on a bird's nest resting atop the one gargoyle's head. The pale lad held his breath as the small bird within began to stir.
"G'mornin' little one," Shiro whispered, his silvery voice pleasantly soft and gentle. A small, rare smile graced Shiro's face as the bird seemed to perk up at the sound of his voice and chirped a happy greeting in return. He hummed. "Will today be th'day?" he asked the little bird, but all the same to the empty air. "Are ya ready ta fly?"
The small creature gave a few light squeaks here and there as Shiro watched it bob in its nest. Ashen brows rose slightly at the bird's antics, chuckling at the numerous amount of chirps from the ruffle of feathers as if the little bird was holding a conversation with him. " 's a good day ta try," said Shiro, eyes drifting over the edge of the wide balcony railing. People hurried about the town square and marketplace below, just like they did every other day, scurrying about like ants on the cobblestone streets as they went about their lives, people Shiro had grown to memorize but never truly know. Other than the normal stalls and setup of the market, wooden structures were being erected all over the square in preparation for the day's activities, soon to be clothed in bright cloths and fabrics. Streamers and flags, too, would decorate the main parts of the city, all in celebration. "The Feast 'a Fools." At his own mention of the festival a slight frown marred Shiro's features, but it quickly disappeared at the excited chirping from the nest beside him.
"Go on," he murmured, softly running a black-nailed finger down the bird's back, the little creature nuzzling into the touch. "Nobody wants ta be cooped up 'ere forever . . ." Shiro trailed off as the bird began to flap its wings from the encouraging words before it took flight and flitted off, singing its farewell as it joined the other nearby birds in the sky. Shiro let out a small sigh as he watched his feathered friend disappear, any sign of his smile vanishing like the little bird. He glared up at the sky. Will today be the day? Was he ready to fly?
The peaceful moment ended abruptly as the same gargoyle burst to life, sneezing feathers from its stony muzzle. "Oh man!" A male voice tumbled from the previously inanimate stone. Carved lanky arms began to shake dramatically in an attempt to loosen his ridged body, words easily rattling from the gargoyle's mouth. "I thought that bird would never leave! I'll be sore for a week! Not to mention I'll be sneezing feathers for weeks!" he complained, lifting the bird's nest from his head and tossing it away without a care, rubbing at his snout in the process. A scowl etched its way on to Shiro's features. He returned to his previous position of leaning against the balcony railing, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, and peered down at the newly decorated square below. He was in no mood to talk to the annoying gargoyle and settled on ignoring him in favor of the people beneath them.
"That's what ya get for sleeping in weird positions, Pesche. All the birds mistake ya for a tree branch," rumbled another voice. The other gargoyle from Shiro's left, Dondochakka, had awoken as well.
Shiro fought the urge to roll his eyes at the comment. It wasn't like Dondochakka was any better. Both gargoyles insisted on perching on the balcony edge in the most ridiculous poses, declaring it was the best way to uphold their duty and guard the cathedral – or at least, from the numerous flocks of pigeons that roosted in the bell tower lofts. Which obviously never worked, as evident from Pesche's constant dilemma. Dondochakka at any rate looked like a somewhat-normal gargoyle with his overly wide and round shape; Pesche, however, with a slender frame and pointed snout, arms always outstretched, easily resembled that of a tree. Shiro constantly wondered if there was something severely wrong with the stone mason's head when he designed those two particular gargoyles.
Pesche uttered a sarcastic chuckle at his companion's comment. "Go scare a nun," he growled. The lanky gargoyle's attention skipped to the pale man between them, the bell ringer's shimmering hair hanging like an ivory curtain around his shoulders. A young man who was very much ignoring them. "Hey, whadda ya watching there, Shiro?" Pesche clacked across the polished stone as he hopped closer to the gazing albino, trying to look over his shoulder. "A fight? A flogging?"
"Oo, a festival!" burst Dondochakka, marveling at the number of tents and booths littering the square and joined the other two in their watch.
"You mean the Feast of Fools?!" Pesche exclaimed. Excited stone eyes seemed to sparkle with untold mischief.
"Yup," Shiro answered dryly, adding a pop at the end, lacking the amusement his stone companions had.
"Alright, alright!" Pesche rubbed his hands together in anticipation, as Dondochakka said, "It's always such a treat to watch all the fun and tradition of the city."
Both gargoyles leaned farther over the balcony edge, straining to see what the growing festival had to offer their stone eyes. An amazing rainbow of colors assaulted their vision and dominated the bland brown tones of ordinary wood and stone. Seas of navy and gold, fuchsia and scarlet, violet and jade – and so many more! – Almost every shade imaginable was present in the many cloths and banners draped along the newly raised structures. Ropes dressed with flags were wrapped around poles and hung from buildings like heavy vines. The few tents Shiro had seen earlier had multiplied before them, covering the square with their vibrancy and various hues. Additional clusters of people attracted by the festival began to crowd the square, scoping out the many amusements and trades available before the true festivities began. Countless others would be joining them soon when the Feast of Fools officially began later that day. Among the current people, Shiro could see numerous amounts of men and women dressed to match the festival's colors, assisting in setting up the Parisian square's grand display – the gypsies. His thoughts were broken when Pesche said, "Nothing like balcony seats for watching the ol' F.O.F., eh, Shiro?" giving the lad a nudge on the shoulder.
Shiro rose from his place with a scoff. "Yeah. Watchin'." Disinterest and bitterness laced his voice as he turned back to the inner loft of the bell tower. He gathered up his lengthy hair and tied it back in a small tail once again. The gargoyles, caught off guard by the comment and disregard, quickly looked to each other and then to Shiro just in time to see the albino disappear back into the tower loft.
"Hey, hey! What gives?"
"Aren't you gonna watch the festival with us?"
The questions were only answered with silence and the scuffing footsteps of the pale bell ringer. They shared a puzzled look.
"I don't get it," Pesche said, scratching his head.
"Perhaps he's sick?" gasped Dondochakka.
"Impossible."
A bright voice sounded behind them, and both turned to see yet another gargoyle hopping along the wide balcony railing. As she got closer, wavy pale stone hair could be seen resting on her petite shoulders accompanied by a plump purple caterpillar. A delicate arm placed on her hip, the obviously well-endowed gargoyle gave the males a temperate look when she stood beside them. The lady gargoyle could have easily passed for the carving of an angel with her beautiful features; with her pleasant smile and bright personality even in the darkest of times, Nelliel defied her demonic appearance. If not for the cracked skull and curved horns she wore on her head, the female gargoyle looked as if she fell from the heavens. "If twenty years of listening to the two of you hasn't made him sick by now," she teased, "nothing will."
"But Nel!" argued Dondochakka. "Watching the festival has always been the highlight of the year for Shiro."
Nelleil's face fell. "What good is watching the festival if you never get to go near it?" She hopped from the ledge and traced Shiro's footsteps back into the loft. With another quick glance at each other, Pesche and Dondochakka followed closely behind.
The three gargoyles found Shiro sitting at a table covered in strewn papers, the lad hunched over and focused. After handing over her precious Bawabawa caterpillar and sending the males a warning glance, Nelliel slowly approached the albino from behind, catching a glimpse of the man's work. Each piece of parchment illustrated a different scene of Paris in bold charcoal; from the amazingly detailed architecture of the city to picture-perfect views of the horizon, Shiro captured the sights he'd long since memorized and ached to experience flawlessly on paper. Besides the landscapes, the most popular topics consisted of the everyday town's people as they went about their lives and routines. There sat sketches of the baker and local fishermen and farmers all about the marketplace, of merchants and their customers, of young families of mothers and their children. A couple pages even consisted of the regular gypsies dancing and playing at the street corners. One piece caught Nelliel's eye more than the others. It was a portrait Shiro had drawn of himself, sitting alone in the dark bell tower covered in shadows, face down and away from the viewer, hiding and lonesome. Nelliel sighed at the image and turned to the actual subject beside her.
Shiro scribbled away furiously at a – not for long – clean piece of parchment with a charcoal pencil in hand. Dark lines curved across the paper, some harsh and bold while others delicate and graceful, smudging the surface when Shiro accidentally brushed against it and consequently turning the man's skin a shiny black. He pretended not to notice Nelliel's appearance.
"Shiro . . ." He continued to draw. "Shiro, honey, what's wrong? Would you like to talk about it?" Nelliel place a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The pencil faltered in Shiro's hand for a moment before continuing across the paper. "I jus' don't feel like watchin' the festival, that's all."
"Well," Nelliel said slowly, "did you ever think about going there instead?"
This time the pencil stopped completely. "Sure, lots 'a times," Shiro said, irritation rising. Gold-on-black eyes glared pointedly at the female gargoyle. His silvery voice took on a flinty edge as he spoke. "But ya know jus' as much as I do I'd never fit in down there. 'm not normal," he gestured to himself, "and I 'ave no wish ta be stared at like some freak." He turned back to his sketch, a scowl planted firmly on his face.
"Oh, Shiro." Nelliel gave a weary sigh. It was never hard to forget how judgmental the citizens of Paris could be. Even though most of what Shiro said rang true, they both knew it wasn't the whole truth.
"Hey, quit beating around the bell tower," Pesche said, finally approaching the table with Dondochakka. "Whadda we gotta do? Paint ya a fresco?"
"As your friends and guardians, we insist ya attend the festival," said the other, his companion affirming the statement with a nod.
Shiro spun around, frown still in place. "What?"
"Of course!" chimed the two gargoyles. "Think of all the things ya can do!" Pesche and Dondochakka began to rattle off their various list of activities, Shiro becoming lost somewhere between tasting cheeses and bobbing for snails, when the young man felt Nelliel's presence at his side again. Her words were light when she spoke:
"Listen, Shiro." That dark gaze lightened as it turned toward her, that frown easing away. "Take it from an old spectator – life's not a spectator sport. If watching's all you're going to do, then you're going to watch your life go by without you." Golden eyes widened at the wisdom.
"Yeah," Pesche added. Apparently the two had finished when the others weren't listening. "You're not stone like us; you're human, with the flesh and the hair. We're just part of the architecture."
"Look, Shiro, just grab a fresh tunic and clean pair of hose and –"
"Thanks fer the encouragement 'n all," Shiro interrupted. His voice sounded heavy with hints of frustration and disappointment as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But yer all forgettin' one very important thing."
"What?" the gargoyles asked in unison.
Shiro quickly shuffled through his papers on the table before he held up one particular portrait of an apathetic man. "My master, Aizen." Various dejected mutterings were the response at the name's mention.
"Well, when he says you're forbidden from ever leaving the bell tower, does he mean 'ever-ever?'" asked Dondochakka.
"'Never-ever,'" Shiro let out a disheartened sigh. He returned the sketch to his work surface and then crossed his arms, leaning against the table's edge. " 'nd he hates the Feast 'a Fools. He'd be furious if I asked ta go." The truth was, Shiro was dying to leave the bell tower – or to at least have the choice to come and go as he pleased instead of being trapped within the stone walls of the cathedral. Stone walls were all he'd ever know. Shiro yearned for freedom. They all knew it. And the festival seemed like the perfect opportunity for the albino to get his wish. But all the same the odds were against him.
A devilish smirk appeared across Pesche's face. "Who says ya gotta ask?"
"No."
"Oh, c'mon! Ya sneak out . . ." Pesche mimed with his fingers, "And ya sneak back in." The others voiced their agreement, Nelliel surprising Shiro by adding, "It's just for one afternoon. He'll never know you were gone."
" 'nd if I got caught?"
Dondochakka broke in, "Wouldn't it better to have gone and to beg forgiveness than to ask permission and never get that chance?"
Shiro ran a hand across his face, instantly regretting it when he smeared the remnants of charcoal on his face. With a grimace, he wiped his face with the bottom of his tunic and asked, "What if he sees me?"
"Ya could wear a disguise," Pesche declared, rummaging around a moment before producing a cloak. "C'mon, just this once. What Aizen doesn't know can't hurt ya!"
Shiro felt a cool stone hand rest on his cheek, turning him to meet Nelliel's sincere gaze. "Nobody wants to be cooped up here forever."
The bell ringer closed his eyes as his own words hit home and buried in his heart. He wanted this, he wanted it so bad, to be able to venture beyond the dusty lofts of the bell tower and join the citizens of Paris instead of watching from above. But at the same time anxiety riddled his mind, although he'd never admit it aloud. What would the people think of him? His snow white hair and skin, his eyes of gold-on-black? Would he be labeled an outcast? Or, dare he think it, be welcomed? The driving need to know and to be free propelled him to answer: "I'll go."
A cheer erupted from the group of gargoyles and echoed throughout that loft. Nelliel's smile was bright, and the two males performed their take on a victory dance. Another rare smile slipped on to Shiro's face to return the sentiment when –
"Good morning, Shiro."
It instantly vanished.
Standing at the top of the steps that led to the upper loft was a brown-haired man dressed in the official robes of the justice ministers. A small basket rested in the crook of his arm. He wore his age well, his features still fair and handsome, but the pleasant appearance did nothing to reach his cold brown eyes. The impassive expression he wore eerily matched the one of the man in the sketch Shiro held not moments ago.
"G'mornin', master," came the flat greeting. Judge Sousuke Aizen stepped further into the loft, eyeing the area with a slight hint of disgust. The red ribbon from his hat moved fluidly in the air behind him. If not for the many years of living with and seeing this man every day, Shiro wouldn't have noticed the small details, the slight curl to his lip or the tick in his jaw, that told more about the seemingly ever-calm Aizen than any words could.
"Dear boy, whomever are you talking to?" the judge asked mildly.
"M'friends." Shiro answered evenly. The gargoyles, though, had instantly returned to their natural state once Aizen appeared. He couldn't blame them, really.
"I see." Aizen turned to an inanimate Dondochakka and rapped on his head. "And what are your friends made out of, Shiro?"
"Stone," Shiro deadpanned.
Aizen pressed, "Can stone talk?"
I don't know, can it? Shiro bit back his initial retort in favor of a more mechanical response and growled. "No, it can't."
A condescending smirk quickly flashed across the older man's face. "That's right. You're a smart lad. Now . . ." Aizen pulled a spare chair next to the table Shiro sat at and seated himself. "Lunch." Shiro gritted his teeth as he stood from his chair and gingerly brushed his artwork aside. With automated motions, Shiro gathered two different place settings from a nearby shelf, one of fine silver and one of wood. He laid the metal before the judge and sat once again with his own wooden set in front of him. Now sitting across from each other, Aizen began to distribute the contents of his basket, laying a small loaf of bread with cheese on Shiro's plate and a bottle of wine on the table.
The albino was about to reach for his meal when Aizen halted his wrist in a light but firm grasp. Gold eyes flicked up cautiously. Aizen gave a haunting lukewarm smile and retrieved a white handkerchief from his robes. He gently began to wipe the smudges of charcoal from Shiro's face and hands, much to the younger man's surprise. Ignoring the perturbed stare that met his brown eyes, Aizen marveled at the ghostly vision, inspecting the bell ringer with a steady hold on his chin. How things had changed; who would have thought such an evil creature could have grown so stunningly beautiful? Of course, only the devil knew how to tempt the most righteous of men. Brown orbs traveled along the expanse of smooth colorless flesh hidden beneath the boy's soft ivory locks, the hair trailing down his shoulders just enough to be pulled back by a tie. The lad's boyish features were accented with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Years of working in the bell tower, pulling the heavy ropes to make the iron bells sing, tapered Shiro's body into a slim figure not lacking in strength or wiry muscle. His charge gained a fluidity and grace as bell ringer for Notre Dame. And those eyes – golden flames flickering in a dark abyss, they were what held the demon, the true monster within an innocent human form. No matter how beautiful he was, Aizen would never be tempted by the darkness those eyes held. When cold brown locked with flickering gold, Shiro jerked back with a wary frown, disturbed by the look in his master's gaze.
Despite the harsh reaction, Aizen's smile remained. The handkerchief now soiled with charcoal disappeared back into his robes, and he began pouring wine into his silver chalice. "Shall we review your alphabet today?"
Shiro bared his teeth in a false smile, resuming the stiff atmosphere these visits always held. "Yes, master. I'd like tha' very much."
"Very well." Aizen produced a book, opening it to a certain page and laying it across his lap. "A?"
"Abomination."
"B?"
"Blasphemy."
"C?"
"Contrition."
"D?"
"Damnation."
"E?"
"Eternal damnation," Shiro answered with a smirk, popping a bit of cheese and bread into his mouth.
"Good," Aizen said, lifting his chalice for a taste of wine. "F?"
"Festival," Shiro said, chewing around his morsel. He only realized his mistake when Aizen spit out his drink, coughing for a moment. The food seemed to stick in his throat as he swallowed, watching Judge Aizen glare at him menacingly over his chalice and wipe the wine from his lips.
"What?" Shiro didn't even bother to recover from his blunder. It was pointless with the judge bearing down on with that dangerous glint to his brown orbs. "You said festival," the older man said, placing one ringed hand on the table's edge to push himself to his feet. "You are thinking of going to the festival."
" 'nd so what if I was?" retorted Shiro. "You go ev'ry year."
"I am a public official; I must go!" Aizen stated with emphasis. "But I don't enjoy a moment. Thieves and hustlers, the dregs of humankind all mixed together in shallow, drunken stupor," he spat in disgust. When Shiro remained silent, the albino fixating a burning glare on him, Aizen continued. "Can't you understand, Shiro? When your heartless mother abandoned you as a child, anyone else would have drowned you. And this is my thanks for taking you in and raising you as my son? Defying me to go to some disgraceful excuse of a festival?"
Shiro's lip curled back into a snarl at the mention of his mother –that woman. The one person who was supposed to love him above all else. But she immediately left him upon seeing his inhuman features, Judge Aizen told him, and he'd happened upon the pale babe and gave him a home. He fixed his glare to the floor, avoiding the cold brown gaze of his master. No matter how much he resented the man, Shiro would always be grateful to the Judge Sousuke Aizen.
"My dear Shiro, you don't know what it's like out there. I do . . ." Aizen's voice softened, bordering on pain and sadness. The bell ringer heard the scrape of a chair and the man's footsteps as he approached him. "The world is a cruel and wicked place, our fair city no exception, and it is I alone whom you can trust in all of Paris." Wicked fingers gripped Shiro's chin tightly, forcing him to look up into harsh brown eyes. "Remember what I've taught you, Shiro. You are deformed and ugly, and out there they'll revile you as a monster. They'll hate you without a moment's hesitation once they lay eyes on you, showing you little pity with their scorn and jeers. I am your only friend, the only one to look upon you without fear. How can I protect you, boy, from the evils of this world, unless you always stay in here?" With his free hand, Aizen ran his fingers through silken ivory hair almost lovingly before tugging harshly enough for Shiro to flinch at the feel.
Aizen leaned forward, his lips hovering beside the pale shell of Shiro's ear. "Stay in here," he whispered, a pull to emphasize his words. "Be faithful to me after all I have done for you. Do as I say: obey and stay in here." The brunette gave one last tug on Shiro's hair before finally releasing his charge and moved back to his seat, collecting his basket and items. The young bell ringer felt an odd chill run up his spine at his master's actions, something he was used to by now. Judge Aizen's words played on his mind.
The judge turned to leave the bell tower when Shiro finally spoke.
"You are good ta me, master," he muttered. Not willing to chance a look at the irate man, he pinned his still defiant scowl on the table. The words were quiet, not so easily admitted. " . . . 'm sorry."
Aizen didn't bother to face his charge. "You are forgiven," he responded. "But remember, Shiro." He gestured lightly to the bell tower around them. "This is your sanctuary." His voice echoed slightly as he descended the steps back down to the main cathedral and left the pale lad alone in the tower loft.
"Sanctuary, eh?" Shiro repeated, the word sounding hollow in the empty still air. He sighed, his frown lessening, and stared up at the bells above him, the iron shimmering under the rays of sun that filtered into the tower. Behind the many stained glass windows and empty balconies, safely hidden deep beneath theses parapets of stone, every day for twenty years Shiro had gazed at the people down below him as they went about their lives. That's all he ever did – watch, when he really longed to not be above them but to be part of them. Shiro scoffed; "sanctuary" and "safe" weren't the words he would have chosen. "Prison" felt better suited. He dragged a hand over his face, rubbing lightly at his eyes, before returning to his meal and eating the bread and cheese Judge Aizen left him.
As he began to clear the table, Shiro paused at the sketches still brushed to the other half of the surface. The friendly faces of the townsfolk stared back at him, frozen in time at the moment Shiro captured them on paper. All his life, Shiro had memorized their faces. He knew their histories and routines, watched as they laughed and shouted with each other, heedless of the gift it was to be them. From his countless day living alone within the stone walls of his "sanctuary," the thought of living in the sun and breathing in the fresh air and standing amongst the citizens of Paris sounded like a dream come true. Before he knew it, Shiro had edged closer to the open balcony and stood gazing over the wide stone railing once again. The wind greeted him with a gentle brush over his skin. "I wonder . . ." he whispered, his voice high yet smooth on the breeze.
How would it feel to pass a day freely walking in the cobblestone streets and town square without a care, to taste the morning and revel in the clarity of the sun and sky? Maybe take a stroll by the Seine, gazing at the shimmering waters he could only imagine in his mind? Shiro would treasure every instant, no matter how small. Just one day, the bell ringer thought. What he'd give just to live one day out there.
In the midst of the bustling activities of the town, the Parisians hurrying about so they could finish errands before the start of the festival, a very frustrated man clad in shining golden armor and a sweeping navy cloak stood beside his white mare at the intersection of several streets. Riotous bright blue hair was styled in a half-caring chaotic mess, some strands hanging over a furrowed brow and matching blue eyes, those same orbs glaring at the outdated map in his hands. He turned the parchment a few times, trying to make sense of it. Needless to say, Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques was not happy.
"Tch, ya leave town for a couple of years and they change everything," he grumbled aloud to his horse. Irritated, Grimmjow crumpled the map in his hands before tossing it away. Cerulean eyes caught sight of two city guards walking by.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," he called out, remembering formalities. "I'm looking for the Palace of Justice. Would you . . ." his words trailed off to a growl as the guards passed by, completely ignoring him. "I guess not," he gritted. Grimmjow pushed onward, suppressing the rising anger that beckoned for release and to teach those meager guards a lesson in respect. He tugged on the mare's reins and pulled her along as he trudged through the streets of Paris, completely lost.
The faint sound of music drifted to the blunet's ears as he rounded a busy corner. He wasn't the only one to hear the enchanting melody apparently as a young girl pulled on her mother's arm, trying to get the older woman closer to the source, but was stopped when the woman dragged her daughter away.
"Stay away, child – they're gypsies. They'll steal us blind."
Grimmjow frowned deeply. He'd never really agreed with the so-called "norms" of society, rather judging people by the quality of their character rather than their appearances and lifestyles. The gypsies lived freely just as anyone should. Grimmjow reached beneath his dark cloak to retrieve a handful of coins from his satchel that he tossed into a hat sitting on the ground before the performing gypsies. Just as he was about to move on and continue his infuriating search for that damn Palace of Justice, a patch of bright sunset orange caught his eye.
Leaning against the stone wall, a hand-crafted flute held up to his petal pink lips, stood a gypsy boy with a head of shaggy tangerine hair. A loose white shirt covered his torso, unbuttoned enough to reveal an enticing amount of his light golden skin and exposing his shoulders. Some sort of small gold and teal bodice decorated his trim waist along with a pair of purple pants that clung to toned legs and ended about his knees. On his hips sat a royal purple sash hemmed with similar golden thread and coins. A gold anklet matched the bracelets on his wrists and around one of his arms was tied a fuchsia scarf. Yet another glint of gold caught Grimmjow's eyes, a hoop earring in the gypsy boy's right ear. Fresh to adulthood, the boy was striking, beautiful.
Next to him was a much younger gypsy girl with a jade green scarf in her short light brown hair. Her matching green dress swirled about her as she smiled and danced to the boy's music, tapping on her tambourine. Her dance partner was a dark brown goat, prancing merrily at the girl's bare feet, a gold hoop in its right ear to match the boy.
Grimmjow stood entranced by the sight of the gypsy boy as he played. All other thoughts of finding the Palace of Justice came to a screeching halt when gooey cinnamon brown eyes met piercing ocean blue. A small smirk formed against the flute as the orange-haired gypsy continued to playfully stare at the soldier. Grimmjow's lips spread into a feral grin, and he took a step forward only to have the moment cut short by a sharp whistle.
His gaze rose to see another young gypsy girl with cropped black hair crouching high up on the stone wall. She gestured frantically to those below her and scrambled down from her post. The music stopped as the first girl let out a gasp. The three gypsies gathered their things and took off, trouble clearly on its way. The old brown goat grabbed the hat full of coins but didn't get very far as the money clattered to the cobblestone street. The orange-haired boy slide to a stop while the girls ran onward, rushing back to gather the change back into the hat, keeping his head down. In the next moment, two guards were upon him, one slender with long pale blonde hair, the other slightly taller with a thin black braid. The boy glared at their polished black boots as he began to rise.
"Alright, gypsy, where'd you get the money?" one questioned scornfully, raising a brow at the hat and glittering gold within.
"For your information, I earned it," the orangette answered in a musical voice that shot straight to Grimmjow's heart and was committed to memory.
"Gypsies don't earn money."
"They steal it." The blonde guard stepped behind the gypsy, grabbing at the boy's arms in a too-tight hold.
He tried to shrug the man off. "You'd know a lot about stealing!" he snarled.
"Troublemaker!" The guard with the braid snatched at one end of the hat but the orange head held fast. His companion taunted, "Maybe a day in the stocks will cool you down," trying to hold the gypsy back for his partner. Both seemed to forget about the brown goat at their feet, the creature braying angrily at his master's distress and headbutting the dark-haired guard in the stomach. The man let out an 'oof!' and bent over, clutching at his middle, giving the gypsy the perfect opportunity to bring his leg up and kick the guard in the face, catching his chin. As the first guard fell to the ground, the orange-haired boy ripped his arms from the blonde's grasp and successfully landed a well-placed elbow to his gut despite the thick metal armor the man wore. He then took off running as fast as his bare feet could carry him, tearing past Grimmjow as he escaped, his brown goat not far behind.
The two guards recovered rather quickly and gave chase after their target. Grimmjow scowled and quickly pulled his mare so that she stood directly in the path of the guards. The blonde guard ran completely into the horse and was knocked backwards while his dark-haired companion clipped the end of the animal and was sent spinning to the ground, landing face first into a puddle on the street. A wicked grin crossed Grimmjow's handsome face.
"Pantera! Sit!"
The horse immediately obeyed, dropping heavily on to the guard behind her. The man let out a pained groan as the immense weight nearly crushed him.
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry," Grimmjow said feigning the apology, his smile still playing at his lips. "Naughty horse, naughty!" He shook a finger at the mare before leaning casually on his sitting steed. "She's just impossible. Really, I can't take her anywhere."
"Get this thing off me!" the crushed guard cried out, the last words coming out more like a whine.
The blonde guard growled, "I'll teach you a lesson, peasant!" He whipped out a short sad-looking sword. Grimmjow scoffed, reaching under his cloak to unsheathe his sharp longsword, pointing the glinting tip at the guard.
"You were saying . . . Lieutenant?"
The guard's eyes widened comically in shock and sudden recognition as he hastily straightened, giving a salute to the blue-haired man. "Oh, C-captain! At your service, sir!"
Grimmjow rolled his eyes at the behavior. He brought his sword dangerously close to the neck of the crushed guard, kneeling next to the fallen man. "I know you have a lot on your mind right now, but . . ." He smirked. "The Palace of Justice?"
It took little convincing for the guards to agree. The men were soon clearing a path through the crowded city street's shouting for the people to make way for the new captain. After a moment, Grimmjow paused, bending down to pick up a few golden coins off the cobblestone street. Blue eyes flicked about until he noticed an old beggar wrapped in a hooded cloak huddled on the cold ground. As he passed, the blue-haired captain dropped the coins into a familiar-looking hat placed in front of the beggar. He didn't need to see the hood being pushed back to reveal the face of a curious brown goat and a lovely orangette male staring in disbelief.
The Palace of Justice was a dark and looming figure over the city of Paris, rivaling Notre Dame herself and full of sky-scraping wicked turrets and spiked roofs. Grimmjow was lead past the front entrance and into a hallway completely made of stone by the two guards, traveling deeper into the prisons. His two escorts stopped before a wooden door, the faint sounds of a cracking whip trickling to the blunette's ears. Brow furrowed in concentration as he steeled himself, Grimmjow pushed the door open with one hand. He stepped into a prison corridor lined with torches and saw a figure dressed in the black robes of the city's justice ministers in the dim lighting. The much louder sounds of repetitive lashes echoed throughout the small space but didn't deter Grimmjow as he strode forward to the figure overseeing the punishment: Judge Sousuke Aizen.
"Stop," Aizen called out, and a man dressed in a dark hooded outfit appeared through the doorway the judge stood beside, a cat o' nine tails over held over his shoulder.
"Sir?"
"Ease up. Wait between lashes," the judge advised. "Otherwise the older sting will dull him to the new."
"Yes, sir," the hooded man replied with a cruel smirk before returning to the room and the poor captive within. It was then Aizen noticed the new arrival and greeted the blue-haired man with a lukewarm smile.
"Ah, so this is the gallant Captain Grimmjow Jaegerjaques, home from the wars," Aizen said, bringing his ringed fingers together in front of him.
Grimmjow's eyebrow twitched in slight irritation, not liking the man already, even as he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. "Reporting for duty, as ordered, sir."
"Your service record precedes you, Grimmjow," Aizen stated, circling the other, observing his newest soldier carefully. "I expect nothing but the best from a war hero of your caliber."
"And you shall have it sir," Grimmjow replied, the barest hint of smirk pulling at his lips. "I guarantee it."
"Yes," Aizen hummed. He spared a glance at the chamber doorway. "You know, my last Captain of the Guard was a bit of a disappointment to me." A whip's brutal crack sounded throughout the corridor followed by the terrible anguished cry of the unseen prisoner. A sadistic gleam lit Aizen's otherwise dull brown eyes. "No matter," he said casually. "I'm sure you'll whip my men into shape."
"Thank you, sir," Grimmjow said, seemingly unfazed but truthfully a bit startled by the judge. "It's a tremendous honor, sir."
The judge's mild smile returned as he lead the two of them further down the corridor and out on to an enclosed balcony overlooking the city. "You come to Paris in her darkest hour, Captain. It will take a firm hand to save the weak-minded from being so easily misled."
"Misled, sir?"
Aizen paused and gestured to the busy Parisian streets with his hand where a familiar pair of gypsies played below them. "Look, Captain – gypsies," he said, a flash of disgust on his face. "The gypsies live outside the normal order. Their heathen ways inflame the peoples' lowest instincts, and they must be stopped."
"I was summoned from the wars to capture fortune tellers and palm readers?" Grimmjow asked, frowning.
"Oh, the real war, Captain, is what you see before you," Aizen said, his brushing against the smooth stone railing beside them. Three innocent ants scurried across the surface. "For twenty years, I have been taking care of the gypsies, one . . . by . . . one." The last three words were emphasized by the death of the defenseless insects by Aizen's fingers. "And yet, for all of my success, they have thrived." He then lifted one of the large stone tiles from the railing, revealing scores of ants underneath. "I believe they have a safe haven within the walls of this very city. A nest, if you will. They call it the 'Court of Miracles,'" he scoffed lightly at the name.
"What are we going to do about it, sir?" Grimmjow asked, his frown deepening and darkening his cyan orbs. Aizen's mouth twitched a fraction before he slammed the stone tile back down on the railing, effectively crushing the colony of ants beneath it. A haunted look stole over the judge's face, his gaze morphing into something dark and cruel. "You make your point quite vividly, sir."
"You know, I like you, Captain," the judge said, laying a cold hand on Grimmjow's shoulder. "Shall we?" He motioned to move onward. Before the blunette could respond, loud cheers erupted from the throngs of people below. Judge Aizen's expression darkened. "Oh, duty calls," he muttered. The judge began to leave and asked, turning, "Have you ever attended a peasant festival, Captain?"
"Not recently, sir."
"Then this should be quite the education for you. Come along." Judge Aizen continued to walk down the balcony with his newly appointed Captain of the Guard following behind. Grimmjow shook his head. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
On a side note, I forgot to mention the 'creeper Aizen' portion of this fic was inspired by Guardian Of Winter. That little bit has grown into an even bigger monster that will reappear throughout the fic.
But how'd we like it?
Chapter Reminders:
- AiryAquarius; find her, love her
- original StB links on profile
- pairings poll is still up (for a short while; this will be the last time you can vote)
- FEED THE AUTHOR; PLEASE REVIEW
I don't know when my next update will be. College is killer. I do know that it will be Hills. That's where my writing mojo's at right now.
Til then,
Cody Zik
I have a poll up on my profile - which story would you like to see me update next? Voice your thoughts! Thank you!