I'm ! Now on with the story. (I'm afraid it's not that great. At least, I don't like it)

Chapter 6

Echoes of a Nightmare

Ichigo tossed and turned around in his bed, a sheen of sweat forming all over his body. His eyes swivelled quickly from side to side under his eyelids, his heart beating erratically in his chest.

Rotten faces loomed over his figure, whispering malevolently words in a litany spoken so quietly it was undiscernable, but their voices were slowly more and more raised until he was able to distinguish something understandable.

Never forgive, never forget. Never forgive, never forget. Never forgive, never forget…

Their voices rose so much their screams could obliterate the thumping of his wildly beating heart.

Ichigo looked closer at those rotten faces in a fit of morbid fascination, his curiosity disappearing as he realized who those rotting faces belonged to.

He screamed, covering his ears, in a futile attempt to silence the voices. He wanted so desperately to close his eyes – to stop seeing the horror around him, the festering corpses – in vain, his eyes still remaining riveted to the scene in front of him. And when he finally manged to close his eyes, and the yells were faint, he could feel them, the rotten, clawed hands gripping vice-like onto his arms, caressing his skin in a disturbing mockery of affection, and he despaired: they were still there, not just a twisted passing fancy of his mind, he could smell the putrefaction of a long-dead body rolling off their bodies in waves and his nose hurt so much just by breathing in the stench of those corpses – but corpses should not move, shouldn't be able to breathe raggedly over his face and scream into his ears and touch him, so lovingly, so gently that for a moment he almost wanted to stop being scared and embrace the remnants of his loved ones as if they were still alive, but he couldn't, because then he saw the corpses and smelled the stench and could feel the rotting skin.

The screams penetrated his skull, and those anguished yells became part of his existence: he couldn't remember anything, he knew nothing except that litany that had took over his mind and was everything in the bleak scenery surrounding him and those – beings.

NEVER FORGIVE, NEVER FORGET!

Ichigo tried to block the voices once again, and failed once more. But suddenly, the barren wasteland around him became eerily quiet, and he dared to crack open an eye, only to find himself staring into a pair of eyeless orbs, and the darkness in them was so complete, so utterly terrifying and overwhelming he could not bring himself to speak or yell. The thing – his mother, a part of his mind said – smiled, a small piece of skin crackling and tearing away from the side of her mouth, as it opened to whisper something.

For all eternity.

As they – she – whispered the last three words in his ear, Ichigo woke up with a yell to find himself back in his room, in Las Noches. He almost sighed in relief, but then he heard the voices, haunting him again, almost as an echo.

We'll haunt you forever… you let us die… don't you dare forget.

Ichigo started trembling, feeling a wave of disgust and nausea roll over him. Combined with his terror it defeated him, and he collapsed to the side of the bed, coughing and retching into the basin as he emptied his innards.

Ichigo blinked.

Wait a moment… a basin? Where'd that come from?I was sure there was nothing here before.

Shrugging, he made his way towards the bathroom a bit unsteadily, still affected by both the dream and his vomit session, to empty and wash the basin.

Every shadow seemed to be more than a mere, innocent shadow, and more than once he fancied ragged breaths ghosting on the nape of his neck, or the brush of dirty and frayed fabric over his bare arms. When he turned off the lights and the shadows would engulf him he would see his dream, replayed over and over in a matter of seconds, the images imprinted on his retinas, never fading.

Returning to his room, he found Stark sleeping on the couch. Again. He sighed in relief. Lately, the Espada had been clinging to him, almost too much, but he'd become an anchor to sanity and reality. The thought of him not there would somewhat disquiet him – in the last week he'd been doggedly followed, in his lazy way, by the Primera, and had been amazed by the amount of reassurance he exuded. Regardless of Stark's company and reassurance, his nightmares didn't stop.

XxX

Sweat trickled down his brow. It was annoying him immensely, but he couldn't reach up to wipe it away. Everything seemed to irritate him so much more than usual lately. Maybe it had to do with his lack of sleep. Unbidden, an image of a bed formed in his mind, and he could almost feel the blankets' warmth enveloping him. Before he knew it, his thoughts were clouded and hazy, and he began to nod off slightly.

He was awakened by the swish of air a few inches away from his face, and he managed to dodge at the last moment, escaping with just a scratch on his face. His mind unfogged enough to be aware of the surroundings, and of a very lazy-looking Stark, yawning to his heart's content as he twirled his sword around in his hand and – somehow – managed to gaze at him quizzically at the same time.

"Are you sure you slept enough? You should rest more often." He yawned again.

Ichigo smirked. "Yeah, right. And become a lazy slob like you?"

This time, it was Stark's turn to smirk. "You've got a sense of humor, kid."

Suddenly, he disappeared from his sight.

He reappeared behind him, striking a powerful blow. "But that won't save you in battle!"

The strawberry was thrown back a few meters by the sheer impact of sword on sword. Pushed against the wall, he was forced to only defend the oncoming attacks of the Primera and the only counterattacks he could effectively make were a few half-hearted kicks – standing in balance on one foot while having to defend the powerful blows of an Espada is no easy task.

Stark managed to see through his guard, and suddenly he found himself with a slash in his chest and blood-stained fingers.

His gaze unfocussed and his legs trembled. Usually, he would still be able to walk properly even after such a blow, but something had been off with his body – and, he recalled with a shudder, his mind – ever since he'd come back from his inner world. Up to now he hadn't learned any new attacks or moves, and even Aizen had been absent for most of the time. He had completely disappeared from Las Noches, and when he was actually there, he was always busy, leaving Ichigo to his own devices – or rather, allowing Stark to sleep and occasionally sparring.

His heartbeat stopped for a moment, as if squeezed tightly by a hand – and suddenly those hands, those slimy, rotten hands were all over him again – and his world toppled over.

He slashed his sword blindly, not knowing who or what he wash hitting. When the sensations didn't leave him, he tried propelling his reiatsu around him haphazardly, hoping to ward off the creatures that inhabited his dreams.

All his thoughts became a mantra, concentrating on only one idea.

Go away, go away, go away, GO AWAY!

His reiatsu became heavier, the pressure increasing, forming a sort of sphere surrounding the vizard, until it exploded in a flurry of reishi.

The sand started flying everywhere in concentric ripples, travelling with a speed so high that the walls cracked under the pressure and invaded the stark white halls beyond in unseen gusts of wind.

He lost control over his zanpakutou, its form shifting and twisting continuously until Ichigo managed to calm himself, only to collapse onto the floor moments later, exhausted. The last thing he saw was Stark bending over him, a preoccupied expression on his face. And then he blacked out.

XxX

There were voices. Warmth. Sadness. And… the sea.

Blinking, Ichigo opened his eyes. He was on a beach, the sun shining brightly at the zenith. The sea rippled placidly, the water moved by a gentle breeze. It was a somewhat familiar scenery.

Could this be another memory?

And to his great amazement, his mother was there, with Karin, and Yuzu, and Goat-beard. And he was a child. And the world was bright and the skies were blue and happiness was the only thing he knew. He ran towards her with his arms outstretched, a smile painted on his features. He'd treasure every moment of happiness, especially now that he could actually talk and touch and be with them other memories he'd seen.

He embraced his mother – or rather, her legs – and something just felt…

Perfect.

No war, no blood, no death, just a simple existence filled with peace and quiet.

He looked up into his mother's smiling face and realized this was no memory – the corpses were back to haunt him, and it was his mother again. Ichigo yelled in horror and tried to escape, but he was held in place by a vice-like grip. He flayed and kicked and punched – and he was still there, the rotting corpses closing in on him. He yelled and yelled for help, but somehow knew that there was no hope for him in the barren land in which the beautiful beach had transformed into. No one could come to aid him, and he would undoubtedly perish alone, surrounded by – by them.

They sunk their teeth and nails into his flesh – the soft baby flesh untainted by scars. Blood poured down in rivers along his body, and white-hot searing pain consumed the remains of his body – resembling a corpse more and more with every passing moment.

There was no hope. There was just the darkness, the despair. He stopped flailing, tears silently staining his cheeks, and let himself fall. It didn't even hurt anymore – the pain was just background static, and yet he felt it burning white-hot on his flesh. His eyes stared bleakly in the darkness over him, and finally knew, once more, what hopeless really meant.

He wished they would be quicker. Ichigo couldn't stand the slow tearing of his skin, the organs slowly disappearing in one of the their mouths, sinew and muscle and brain and veins parting from the place in which they'd all been jammed into.

He was quite ready to die, but something kept nagging at the back of his mind – that torn mass of grey cells slowly pulsing between a cracked skull.

And it dawned on him – he couldn't let go. He couldn't. There was still him, Aizen, waiting for him. And Soul Society. His hands weren't yet stained with their blood. Somehow, the fierce, burning anger and his mellow feelings towards Aizen were able to coexist, and suddenly he wished to move like he never had – not when saving Rukia, not when saving Orihime or Nel or whoever else.

His arm lifted painfully and he tried to free himself again. He'd almost managed to get away from the pit, but a hand reached out and grabbed his ankle, breaking it with a horrible screeching sound, dragging him back into the mass of swarming, rotting, festering bodies. He screamed again, like he did before – but no sound came out. They'd eaten through his trachea.

XxX

Something went wrong. I knew I should have done something – damn it! I wish I'd been quicker and done something about it – not only will Aizen-sama be furious at me, but I let him die. He's dying and I don't know why, but the only thing I can think of is that I let it happen. I should have made him talk, solve this problem, anything. And now I'm sonidoing towards the sick bay with him in my arms. I'm so stupid. So stupid. I should have learned when I lost Lilynette – if you cherish someone, don't let them slip through your fingers. I hope he doesn't die. I don't want him to.

I yelled for all the doctors present, and ordered someone to go fetch Szayel. He was in a critical condition, not because of the slash I'd left on his chest – of all his physical problems, that was the most irrelevant by far. His body had begun to bleed internally, a few organs missing, his brain damage so extensive that he wouldn't make it through the night, the doctors said, unless he suddenly acquired super high-speed regeneration. He could heal himself, they said, but it seemed he didn't want to.

For a moment, I thought I'd returned to my human days. This had happened so very often I was already preparing myself for the mental shock. And once again, I thought there was something almost poetic about it, the body functions ceasing, everything returning to that stillness that I attempted to imitate while sleeping, still being ever attentive. A part of me was disgusted with this objective view of Ichigo's death, the loss of someone who I had come to respect and treat like a friend. My coldness in this type of situations – maybe except when Lilynette perished alongside me – has always had this effect.

Time passed, though I don't know how long. I'd almost given him up, and was hoping for some kind of miracle by now. And some sort of miracle did come. (Or, perhaps, was it the worst possible thing that could have happened?). The doors slammed open, and Aizen-sama rushed in, preceded by such a blast of reiatsu that most of the doctors collapsed in heaps upon the floor. In all the time I have served him, I have never seen him keeping his control on his emotions this lax, but, after all, it's about Ichigo. He glows like silver, and he looks so desperate I almost think that the one standing in front of me might be a completely different person. I knew there was some sort of bond between them, I had gathered this much, but I didn't think it was quite this profound. But things will come to an end today. I don't believe Ichigo will survive.

But, for the Moon's sake, I wish he could.

XxX

He was dying. Dying, dying, dying. Could he have done something about it, he would have fended off those – those things. But he couldn't. And pain overwhelmed him, his body reduced to tatters. The blood, gushing around, everywhere. He'd try to get away, but he would slip and fall or be physically incapacitated and couldn't move. It stained the sky, the ground, those – rotting, festering disgusting, abominable – corpses, his body. The broken body. The body that had rotted with the passing of years and decades and centuries and millennia – but they still found something to chew on, another way to destroy him and annihilate him, turn him to the barest dust that floated in the barren plain. Light, comfort, warmth and life were unknown to him.

Someone called his name. He didn't heed the familiar voice, he'd had delusions so many times – some lasting years – and knew not to trust the part of his mind that told him that it was all real, that he was safe and people could help him. And once again it all seemed so realistic, he would have gladly given in to his mind's delusions, if he didn't know that it was all just an illusion.

The voice called his name again. It was Aizen's voice. He'd heard it many times, and it always sounded so beautifully, pronounced by fake-Aizen's lips, dark and husky and low and so seductive, like the tempter that lured the innocent prey into sweet, velvety darkness.

But it seemed so real this time. More than any other. He tried to speak, but only an unintelligible groan came out of his mouth.

Moonlight exploded on the bleak plain, the colorless grey sky transforming into a starry night. The creatures shrieked and shrunk away as the moon pierced the sky and the air pressure escalated rapidly.

Is it another delusion?

It isn't, Ichigo. It's happening.

As he was welcomed by the warmth of Aizen's arms, Ichigo felt he could die of happiness.

XxX

"Ichigo! Wake up!"

I yelled for the umpteenth time, my voice tinted in utter desperation, my eyes crazed as my façade of composure melted as his life slipped through my fingers with every passing moment. I refused to lose him. It was lust, desire for that raw, unchecked power and the prospect of a strong ally – that could free me – that , but I soon found myself attracted to many other things about him. Just his presence could color the monochromatic existence I led by now; he made life move with beauty and harmony and perfection.

And he was dying.

I tried to steel my mind, but to no avail: I attempted everything, I even used the strongest healing spells I knew, but his wounds wouldn't close up.

I thought out every possibility, but I had only one option left.

I calmed myself, breathing deeply. The smallest mistake and he'd be dead. And so would my plans, a not-so-gentle side of myself told me. I stood stock-still for a moment, almost chuckling at my anxiety.

I entered his mind slowly, trying to make the least impact possible, not even making my presence visible. It took a while of coaxing, but, finally, he woke up. Tears trickled silently from his eyes. Suddenly, he embraced me. I was still, pleasantly surprised, for a moment, and then I reciprocated the embrace.

Life had stopped and started again, just for him.