He didn't spend the night well, but that went without saying. The bed was comfortable, probably more so than what he was used to sleeping on despite the fact it was a servant's quarters. The room itself was nice; though likely far simpler than the royals' rooms, it was nonetheless artfully decorated with Mercian wares; the brazier on his bed stand was mercifully ordinary and the firelight real, while the floor was covered by a large, detailed rug depicting a hunt scene. Nobles on horseback chased after an elusive white stag through a forest, accompanied by their hounds and a fanfare trailing behind them. Above shone a horned moon, casting a silvery light over the party. He hadn't had the patience to examine it any closer, but there were disconcerting shadows between the trees. Eyes, he swore, lurked in the underbrush; hidden beings watching the hunt, whether ill intentioned or benign.

That was when he'd torn his eyes away to skim over the rest of the room, grudgingly appreciating the energy of the place after the soul sucking gloom of the corridor that led to Szayel's domain. Still, it was little comfort when he realized that, unless he could figure out a way to break the curse the archmage had placed on him, it would be his home for a while yet. The warrior paced restlessly at that thought, wracking his brains for a solution, but eventually gave up, kicking off his shoes and stripping off the formal attire he'd worn to the palace, which now abraded his pride. There would be no immediate answer to his plight; he would have to observe closely and learn Szayel's weaknesses. Find a way to blackmail or bribe the man into helping him. With this in mind and dressed only in his undergarments, he lay down reluctantly and stared at the ceiling until at some unknown point, his vision dissolved to blackness and he slipped into the dream world.

-.-.-.-.-.-

"Thief! Thief! Catch that boy!"

Nnoitra stretched his lanky legs, maneuvering deftly through the market place as guardsmen followed close on his heels. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, making his blood sing, and though he was afraid of being caught, the risk also tantalized him. Made him feel alive. The world raced past him, details preternaturally clear in his state of hyperawareness. There were several factors working against him; his own poor nourishment, the pie held awkwardly clutched to his chest and reducing his agility, the fitness of the men pursing him… but there were also advantages. His smaller size, adroitness at moving quickly through crowds, and the impetus to escape, because a thief who was caught in Amistri suffered either mutilation or death, depending on the value of the stolen item.

He would likely only lose a hand, but in the rough, cutthroat slums, being a cripple was as good as a death sentence. But he would not lose a hand today; the shouts of the guards that followed him were faint in his ears. He was losing them. Victorious, Nnoitra ducked into an alley…

…and ran headfirst into a man. The boy swore as he backed off and glared up at his obstacle with hostile, narrow eyes. However, hostility soon turned to dread as he realized who he'd run into.

"Fuck!" he proclaimed, tensing to flee, but the blue haired man's hand quickly shot out and grabbed his shoulder in a vise-like grip.

"You don't speak that way to your future king, slum brat," the royal growled. Nnoitra glanced back over his shoulder, hearing the shouts of his pursuers grow closer, and narrowed his eyes even further. He stuffed the small pie into his mouth, releasing his hands for use, and quickly struck the man's wrist. He released him as soon as he made contact, pulling away before Nnoitra could break the bones there, and the boy took the opportunity to turn tail and run.

He felt a leg hook around his knees, and with a yelp muffled through the pie in his mouth, careened forward, landing in the alley muck and losing the item he'd gone to such efforts to filch. Dazed, he struggled to his feet, only to find himself facing the guards who had finally caught up to him. They took one look at him, then at the man behind him, and seized him before acknowledging their crown prince.

"Prince Grimmjow, apologies for your run in with this vermin," one proffered as he manhandled Nnoitra, roping a leather cord around his wrists. Nnoitra glared and kicked him in the kneecap.

"I'm not vermin ya damn guardsman trash!" he shouted wildly as the man cringed and shifted his weight to his other leg. The guard hit him hard across the face, and though the pain made him gasp and his vision black out for an instant, he grinned, knowing he'd struck a vein. Deciding that if he was screwed anyways, he'd go down with the satisfaction of shaming his captor in front of his liege.

"Academy failure! Not even good enough ta be a proper soldier. Yer stuck here instead guardin' market places from 'vermin' like me who never even had th' chance!" Nnoitra antagonized, spitting on his boots. His efforts were rewarded with a brutal kick to the stomach, and though he bent double in pain, he never let the crazy grin fade from his lips.

"Quiet you thieving piece of shit, or it'll be more than your hand that I cut off!" the guard threatened, seething. He yanked him upright by his long, wild hair, and pained tears sprang to the corners of his eyes as his scalp screamed in agony.

"Probably Roma stock, bloody useless vagrants," his partner commented as the boy finally stiffened and quit his thrashing. Nnoitra's response was to stomp down hard on his foot. If it weren't for his steel toed boots, he would have had the satisfaction of hearing his toes crunch. The guard cursed and kicked his legs out from under him, and Nnoitra fell to his knees, eyes rolling back in pain.

"Bet it makes ya feel good ta kick me around since ye'll never get to see the battlefield. And ya call yerself an Amistrian. Ha!" was his vindictive, albeit breathless retort. He shrank back when the guard drew his sword, baring his teeth, and tensed his body to roll away.

"Disrespect to authority means whipping, boy, but I think I'll take that hand and impudent tongue of yours first."

Nnoitra stared back defiantly as the man released his hair and his companion circled around to grab him from behind. He felt himself roughly shoved up against the wall of a building, cheek pressing painfully into the stone and mortar, and his hands untied. One was twisted painfully behind his back, the other wrenched high above his head and pressed flat against the stone. Fear curled his gut as he realized what was about to happen, and he began to thrash again. A blow to the back of his head concussed him and his wild movements slowed somewhat, but did not stop, and a litany of threats and curses streamed from his mouth.

"You'll pay ya bastards! I'll make ya fucking pay for this! No good, knuckle draggin', scum sucking, mother fucking sons of bitche-"

A rough, calloused hand covered his filthy mouth, cutting off his colorful cussing, and a cold chill ran up his spine as he felt metal press against his wrist as the guardsman judged the angle of his swing. His knees locked as he felt it withdraw, anticipating the moment the sharp steel would whistle down and sever hand from wrist with dread. He opened his mouth, preparing to bite down on the palm that gagged him when a stern, imperious voice rang out.

"Stop."

The crown prince. He'd forgotten about him in his panic, and now… he was interceding? The guardsmen seemed just as surprised as he, for they expressed their consternation.

"My lord, this boy-"

"Are you questioning my authority?"

The man stalled.

"No, milor-"

"Then release him."

His captor let him go, grudgingly, and Nnoitra rubbed the circulation back into his wrist before tensing to spring away. Grimmjow shot him a warning look, and despite all of his nerves shouting at him to run, he stayed. It was only by Grimmjow's grace that he wasn't at this very moment having his hand cut off. Nnoitra straightened, still wary, but waiting. Grimmjow stalked over to him, hands clasped behind his back, and sized him up critically. He stared back, unabashed in his defensiveness, dirty with the filth from the alley floor.

"You boy. Your name?" Grimmjow demanded.

"Nnoitra Jiruga."

"Why did you steal?"

"I'm hungry."

"Where is your family?"

"Rotting in the slums if they're still alive."

Grimmjow nodded briskly, as if he'd expected such an answer.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"I am ten."

The prince paused, appearing to consider this bit of information, then nodded again.

"Very well. You're a little old, but I think it will be possible to fit you into the Academy."

Nnoitra gaped.

"T-the Academy?" he stuttered, all cynical defensiveness gone in an instant.

"You have courage, initiative, and stubbornness, all traits that would serve you well. But you have to learn to hold your tongue. Insubordination will get you killed quickly."

Nnoitra opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Finally, he shuffled his feet, lowering his eyes respectfully.

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

Grimmjow snorted, amused, and dropped into a half crouch, tilting his chin up.

"Don't think this means you're getting off without a beating, boy. You'll take your lashes for disrespecting a guardsman, but you also owe something for stealing that pie."

Another cold chill ran up his spine as his apprehension returned, and Grimmjow removed a knife from his belt.

"Hold him so he doesn't struggle," he ordered the guards, and they eagerly complied, immobilizing him as Grimmjow unsheathed the weapon. It was not decorated, made only of leather and cold, blueish steel. He looked down at Nnoitra, eyes no longer filled with amusement, and raised the tip of the knife so that it rested just above his left cheekbone.

"Remember boy; the law is hard, but it is the law. No one is exempt."

Nnoitra screamed as the weapon plunged into the socket and gouged out his eye.

-.-.-.-.-.-

A knock on the door roused him from his dreams. Blinking the sleep out of his eye, he remembered where he was, then glanced over to where he'd heard the knock. In a moment he was out of bed, striding over to the door and opening it. He stared down at the petite, rather intimidated looking servant who in turn looked up at him. She cleared her throat nervously, lips pursing as she eyed his bare chest, then met his eye.

"You're to wake at this hour every day, sir. Prince Ulquiorra rises early, and you have to be up before him to attend to him."

Sir. So, as the personal attendant to his Royal Apathy, he received a status boost. Not ideal, but not bad. He could work with this. Maybe.

Just think of him as a higher ranking officer…

"Time?" he asked tersely.

"Just before sunrise."

So, just like in the barracks.

He could definitely work with this.

"Got it," he replied, before abruptly shutting the door. The woman knocked again, this time impatiently, and when he reluctantly dragged it open again, she looked up at him indignantly.

"Sir, I'm not here to wake you up but to light your hearth."

She stared past him towards the small fireplace he'd missed, and he eyed it lazily now, eye flickering back to her after a moment.

"Now why the hell would you do that if I'm not gonna be here most of the day? Seems like a waste of time and fuel to me," he remarked flatly, and grinned when she looked flustered. "Look, I can light my own damn fires. I'm not some useless noble."

She shot him a dirty look, thinning her lips, but lowered her head to show she'd understood.

"Of course. I won't disturb you anymore."

She turned and closed the door behind her quietly, despite the sourness he felt from her at his rude treatment. He stared at the door a moment longer, then shrugged, stretching his shoulders, and went to retrieve his luggage.

It was a medium sized wooden trunk, and contained all his belongings. A war chest, as the Amistri Academy referred to it. It was one of the first things issued to new students, along with a uniform, and by law, all personal belongings a soldier owned had to fit into it. Of course, his first war chest had been smaller, as befitted a student. As he'd advanced to the position of general, he'd been upgraded to a larger size. But while he'd been but a student, he'd learned quickly to keep only what he needed. If he filled his chest with treasures, he would have no room for his clothes, and all possessions found outside of the chests were confiscated. He remembered very clearly one boy who had been somewhat of a packrat; the fat tears that had rolled down his face at the realization that he hadn't any fresh underwear to change into and his uniform trousers were now missing, the penalty of which was a good public lashing in front of the other students.

At the time, it had seemed a rather stupid rule. Now, with a greater appreciation for precisely what it took to keep a vast army running efficiently, he understood that it had been the Academy's way to teach its students to travel light. And even now, Nnoitra did just that. He grimaced at the clothes Grimmjow had forced him to pack as he pulled them out; they were of cloth more decorative and soft than useful. However, true to Amistrian pride, the cut was smart and simple. No pointless flourishes or frills; these were clothes he could move in, fight in if so needed. He might be a pet to the Mercian royals now, but that did not mean he would dress as one.

He carried them over to the bed, tossing them onto the mattress before he stripped off the rest of his clothing. Over his legs he strapped leather pads, and leather gauntlets went over his arms as well, the tops of which were sewn with very fine chain mail. He regarded the rest of his armor, reluctantly leaving it be. What he wore was more a measure of personal consolation; he felt strange without the typical weight on his body. With a grudging sigh, he pulled on his shirt, hating how the sleeves billowed slightly, though at least it had proper cuffs. This material was far too light for his tastes; a thin, navy silk better suited for a merchant than a warrior. The pants at least were more substantial, and he tucked the bottoms into his boots as he slipped these on. Leather gloves, made of kidskin, went over his spidery hands snugly. All that remained was his belt, which he'd refused to exchange for something fancier, and he hooked this over his hips, feeling the weight of his sword settle comfortingly at his hip; he hadn't been allowed to take with him his poleaxe, as it was impractical in a palace setting. His long sword really was too, and so a variety of knives and small weaponry were also secured to his belt, including one bullwhip concealed along the inside rim.

At last, he was ready to face his charge. Or nearly ready. There was a pitcher of water on his bedside table, and he took this up, pouring some into his hands and splashing it across his face to wake himself up completely. Combing his hair, he pulled it up into a pony tail with a tie so it would not get in his face while he worked. Whatever that entailed. Trailing a person more statue than man promised to be a rather dull task, and he grit his teeth at the thought of how much of a waste of his day that was. Wiping the sour sneer off his face, he stalked out of his room without a backward glance.

The king had mentioned his room adjoined Ulquiorra's suite, giving him a couple options. But judging from the distance between doors, he placed the royal's room as the door several meters down the hall. He was there in seconds, his long legs quickly eating up the distance, and he leaned in the doorframe casually, rapping the wood with his knuckles.

"Milord?"

He schooled his voice to be emotionless, not quite trusting himself to sound respectful or cheery just yet. Fuck if he was going to sound cheerful for this pale-skinned bratling. He shook his head at the thought, lip curling slightly in distaste.

"Enter," came the monotone reply, and he obeyed, stepping inside. Ulquiorra was still in the process of dressing, though he'd nearly finished, and as he walked in, he caught only the flash of his white chest before he pulled on his dark emerald silk tunic. Nnoitra watched him, privately marveling at his white-washed complexion.

How the fuck's he so pale if his mother's skin is dark?

Somewhere along his family lines, he must've had an albino for an ancestor. He grinned internally, amused by this thought.

"It's impudent to stare at royalty, servant," Ulquiorra informed him quietly, cold green eyes catching his violet reprovingly. He reached for a black vest embroidered with silver thread as Nnoitra averted his eyes dutifully, fingers again twitching slightly at his sides. He really had to work on impulse control, but it was so difficult when his entire existence was reduced to that of an insect crawling at Ulquiorra's feet.

Servant.

The word was bitter on his tongue.

After adding a sash to his ensemble and combing his hair, Ulquiorra walked past him quietly, not even bothering to send a glance his way as he exited his room.

"Follow," was all the tacit young man said as he swept down the hall at an unhurried, dignified pace. And resisting the urge to growl mutinously, Nnoitra followed a few paces behind, placating himself with the fact that his charge was rather short for a male, and though he could talk down to him figuratively, literally, it was an impossibility. Back safely turned to him, Nnoitra took the opportunity to let his internal, snaky grin externalize.

There was an advantage to playing at personal servant. It meant that he got to eat the same food as the royals, and so breakfast was a more sumptuous affair than he was used to. Walking into the banquet hall, he was greeted by the sight of the kitchen servants setting the morning meal. They nodded to Ulquiorra as he entered, disappearing back to the kitchen, and the room was left empty but for the two of them. The rest of the royal family had yet to arrive. Ulquiorra took his seat over by one of the large stained glass windows set into the wall, filling his plate quietly and managing to make little more noise than the unavoidable rasp of metal on ceramic as he arranged his chosen food on his plate, though even these were occasional. He was very poised in handling his silverware, almost nauseatingly precise. Nnoitra watched him for a minute as he selected what looked like a slice of flaky egg and spinach pie- quiche, he vaguely recalled- buttered slices of fine, white bread, slices of steaming smoked ham with a light honey glaze, and several segments of an orange citrus fruit that smelled sweet. There was a bowl of oatmeal already set out for him, and he shook a spoonful of brown sugar over this, mixing in raisins and chopped walnuts from another dish before adding a small trickle of milk from a pitcher.

Nnoitra stared. Porridge. Oats. For a noble? Admittedly, the raisins and walnuts were a luxury peasants couldn't afford, but still. The dish was so plebian. Ulquiorra glanced up at him as he stirred the oatmeal with a silver spoon, emerald eyes catching his sole violet with an expression close to reproach. A moment later, he found out why.

"Didn't I already tell you it is impudent to stare at royalty? Now come over and taste this for me."

Ulquiorra proffered him the spoon he held, now full with the oatmeal. Nnoitra stared at it dumbly for a moment, and Ulquiorra's eyes narrowed a fraction.

"I gave you an order, servant."

Nnoitra reached out and took the spoon automatically, then paused, eyes flicking between the object and the prince. He gazed back coolly.

"And why the he-… why I am supposed to taste this?"

Ulquiorra's lips thinned as he gave him a look of complete disdain.

"Obviously to ensure it isn't poisoned. Or at least not poisoned with something that will immediately kill me. I'll have to chance it for today; my usual poison taster is in bed with a fever, so he's just as useless as you."

Nnoitra stared into his large, green eyes, gelid with superiority, and let his lips tip up into a sardonic smile. Oh, there was really no surmounting this one's pride and self-importance. No point in arguing with him, or provoking him. It may have been tempting if he'd known he'd get a reaction out of the young man, but even that was doubtful. So he smiled, an eerie smile that involved more tooth than people generally found comfortable, and he raised the spoon to his mouth.

"Of course, milord. That was a stupid question."

And if yer damn breakfast kills me, I'm coming back to haunt ya.

-.-.-.-.-.-

The food wasn't poisoned. Or at least, not laced with any fast acting compounds and it was still possible they'd die in horrific ways later, writhing on the ground and convulsing as they spat up blood from ulcerated organs as Ulquiorra informed him rather morbidly. That was something he'd discovered about his young charge; he was surprisingly pessimistic, flatly informing him of what could, he said realistically, occur to lead them all to failure or demise. Yet even with such a dark outlook, he maintained his confidence and pride. It was a strange blend of temperaments, one that unsettled him slightly. A future ruler should not act so passively towards perceived or possible fate.

The remainder of the royal family had shown up some twenty to thirty minutes later, still early but at a more reasonable waking hour. The king and queen had arrived together, with the princess preceding them by a minute or so. By this point, having tasted all of the food on the table, he'd been allowed to take a seat down at the end where no one sat and fill his own plate of food, which he was tucking into as he watched them enter. His narrow eyes appraised the young woman who fair skipped into the dining hall, a tall beauty in a burgundy dress with a modest chest and a slightly immodest bodice line. He raised an eyebrow at her exuberance as she minced over to the table, so out of place among her brother and father, but it wasn't her figure or energy that drew his eye so much as the color of her hair. Pink. His gut clenched. It reminded him unpleasantly of another.

The young woman, whose age he estimated to be somewhere around sixteen, sat down next to her brother.

"Hey, hey, Ulqui. Isn't it pretty out today?" she asked with a smile and a cheerful warble as she leaned forward on her elbows conspiratorially. He gave her a dignified look as he replied, but Nnoitra noticed how his expression seemed less stiff. There was even the faintest hint of a smile under the apathetic set of his mouth.

"Quite lovely, Yachiru. But you shouldn't slouch like that. Rukia will tell you off for improper posture."

Yachiru made a face, but straightened up, removing her elbows from the table. For a moment, she actually looked elegant sitting there, her shoulders rolled back and her chest forward, hands resting delicately in her lap. Then she grinned impishly again and rose, giving her brother a peck on the cheek before she made her way further down the table to where a plate had been set for her. As she sat down, her father spoke up.

"Yachiru, learn manners. It is unbefitting of a Kuchiki to act in such an irreverent fashion. You should listen to Rukia more; she seems to have a grasp on the way proper ladies should conduct themselves."

Yachiru glanced up the length of the table at Byakuya, expression inscrutable for a moment before she composed her expression into something more modest, dipping her head in assent.

"Yes, father."

She picked up her fork delicately and set to arranging things on her plate, but Nnoitra observed that the minute Byakuya occupied himself with his own breakfast, a sly half smile returned to her full lips, and her warm brown eyes gleamed with something that was definitely not meek. However, she drew no more attention to herself that morning. Even when she glanced over at him, obviously dying to interrogate the man who watched her silently from his end of the table, she said nothing. He offered her a one eyed wink at her searching look, and she pulled a face at him before pointedly ignoring him, head held high arrogantly, though there was a playful aura to hers that the other males did not hold.

The queen was another story. She had remained silent during the whole exchange, and unlike her son, daughter, and husband, she was watchful. He was in fact drawn to her after he felt the eyes of another watching him intently, and he slowly raised his to look across the table. He closed it quickly at the sight of amber staring back, again reminded of a certain man, before he opened his. Her complexion was exotic; deep violet hair, framed an angular face the color of coffee and milk. She had a cutting gaze, those golden eyes framed with dark lashes far from soft, but whereas her husband and son's were cold, hers were hot. Smoldering embers, hinting at the intensity of her personality which masqueraded just beneath the surface of her feminine, curvaceous figure.

Instinct told him to stare back, challenge the authority of what he recognized to be someone dangerous. A rival. It was an instinct that confused him, and that he ultimately disregarded. She was a queen, not a warrior. Not a danger. And in any case, he was not in the position to act defiant towards a reigning monarch of the country he now served. So he looked away, down at his own food as he ate, and gradually felt the heat of her gaze travel elsewhere. He only realized he'd tensed when he felt his shoulders relax, and he scowled at himself, questioning the strong feeling of wariness he felt in response to her. She was only a woman after all.

Nonetheless, he continued to brood on his reaction through the course of the meal. Even when he observed a softer, playful side to her as she spoke to Byakuya warmly, and he saw where Yachiru had learned her mischievous smile and strong personality from. Even when Ulquiorra excused himself, rising, and Nnoitra rose as well to follow. He was struck by his impression of this strange royal family, an impression he'd gotten the evening before. That there was more to them than there seemed superficially, and they were not the silly merchant fops the rest of the world typically assumed them to be.

Every ruling family had their dark cess of secrets. It seemed the Kuchikis were no exception. And depending on what he uncovered, that could work in his favor.

Perhaps this curse would turn out to be a convenience.

A/N: So goes another, rather uneventful chapter. I do so hate setting up stories. x3 I find it tedious and want to dive straight into the action, but oh well. Once again, I've broken my practice of no flashbacks in the middle of a fic. I guess that makes me an incorrigible hypocrite. Too bad. Little Nnoitra is adorable but has a positively filthy mouth.

Yes, the queen is likely who you suspect her to be. Yes, she is married to Byakuya. Yes, Ulquiorra and Yachiru are their children. And Ulquiorra eats oatmeal. I did say this was crack, didn't I? Just wait till you see who else I've twisted in this story. ^^ And believe me, I have done so. (Ohoho)

Next chapter should have less reflection and a little more action. :3 If you like, read and review. I love reviews. They make my day. There is also the possibility that I use this fic as a Nanowrimo "novel" and thus you will get (hopefully) many updates. On a fic no one reads. I make no sense to myself.

See you when I see you next!