If there was such a thing as Hell on earth, then this was surely it. Nnoitra drifted between terrible fits of wakefulness and the debilitating agony each new poison brought on. Some were slow and creeping, almost deceptive in their subtlety as they sapped his strength and brought on fever like an illness. Others struck with frightful speed, leaving him gasping on the floor within thirty seconds as his heart fluttered weakly and hallucinations swam before his eye. Sometimes he flailed in his own bile and blood, convulsing spasmodically. Other times, he felt his body go numb and his breathing falter as the poison shut down his nervous system and paralyzed him.

But these individual experiences were nothing. Torture was something he'd been conditioned for psychologically; he would not be undone so easily. No... what really demoralized him were the stretches of lucidity when he could comprehend the situation he was in, because at those moments, he could fully appreciate his vulnerability. Pale, nauseous, and trembling shamefully from the assault on both his body and pride, Nnoitra understood that Szayel would not let him go until he could not take any more. His body could be regenerated and healed as often as the Archmage desired, but his sanity had a breaking point, and it was this that the other man drove him to the brink of with the glee of one who had been there himself.

And even after this session was over, countless more remained. The Kuchikis were in no hurry to have him as their poison taster; if it appealed to Szayel, he could continue this "game" of his for as long as he liked.

Game... the Archmage possessed a uniquely sick sense of humor. Perhaps not in the sense that its sadistic nature was unique, but that the creativity he took with designing his scenarios was. And the way that he carried himself... elegant, genial, theatrical almost... but lurking beneath his polished civility was a darker nature. Szayel's true face was something far less stable. Lord... he wanted to wipe the arrogant smile off his face. He wanted to tie him up, fuck'm up good. Drag a blade through his pretty cheekbones, feed him his own poisons, watch him writhe in his bodily fluids...

Nnoitra wanted to break him, but he knew he couldn't. Even if he had the ability to hurt the man, which he didn't, Szayel was untouchable. Because Szayel was his only way out of this situation, and that fact was enough to bring him close to despair. How could Szayel be won over? It seemed as likely as the Kuchikis magnanimously deciding to release him. The pain became an almost welcome presence because it distracted him from his thoughts and gave him something he could struggle against, however feebly. More welcome still were the fits of merciful blankness that unconsciousness brought, but they were always too brief. Szayel never let him stay unconscious for long, and the tingling in his limbs from the electric jolts Szayel roused him with when he fainted was proof of this.

And then out of the blue... Szayel seemed to decide that Nnoitra had endured enough for one evening. Nnoitra woke to the feel of a damp cloth smoothed over his forehead instead of a vicious shock to his body. Opening his bleary, feverished eye, he made out the features of the Archmage, his pink hair framing his cheeks. Noting that his subject was awake, Szayel smiled pleasantly down at him and sat back.

"I think that I've kept you long enough for one evening. You have remarkable fortitude Nnoitra; I'm afraid I may have gotten a little carried away in my excitement."

Nnoitra licked his lips to moisten them, little good that it did him. His tongue felt dry and sandpapery, the moisture stolen from it by his loss of fluids. His body ached with a need for water that was physically painful. Having anticipated this, Szayel tugged him into a sitting position and passed him a glass of water. By this point, Nnoitra was too dehydrated to care if it was poisoned or not.

"I will call you down in a few days, so take the time to recuperate. I'll be looking forward to our next... session."

Summoning two diminutive creatures to him, Szayel bade them escort him out, and Nnoitra soon found himself on his feet, staggering through Szayel's jungle. They left him at the exit, departing with giggles, and he glared resentfully after the sprites before painstakingly beginning the trek back to his room. The dark hallway was a nightmare to traverse. Leaning heavily against the wall for support, he tried to ignore the way his skin crawled and his throat seemed to close up at the magic that hung thickly in the air. Even after he stumbled through this, he had to navigate the castle half conscious in order to find his way back to his designated bedroom. Fumbling with the door, Nnoitra finally got it open and slunk inside.

As he stood there, body trembling slightly from exertion, he felt a caustic revulsion at his own weakness rise up in him. Damn it! This wasn't right! He hadn't felt this way in years. He wasn't... weak... A bitter hiss shuddered out of him as he detached himself from the doorframe and skulked over to his bed, kicking off his shoes and casting away his soiled clothing as he walked. When he reached it, he flopped down onto the mattress and gazed blindly up at the ceiling, brooding.

His room was mostly lightless, save for the sliver of moonlight splashed across his coverlet. It entered his designated quarters via a narrow window cut into the stone wall. Turning his head, Nnoitra examined it idly, contemplating how it left the castle vulnerable. Little slits such as these were good for ventilation, but if the nobles had anything larger in their rooms for vanity, it was an open invitation for an assassin to creep in and slit their throats while they lay sleeping.

Nnoitra turned his head again, this time glancing over to where the fireplace was. If that bitch maid had really wanted to do her job properly, she would have lit it in the evening. The ex general sneered. What incompetent staff the Kuchikis kept. Mouthy and useless. God, he needed to get out of this fucking place. This was such a mess. Nnoitra dragged a hand over his face and exhaled sourly, grimacing at the taste of bile that lingered on his tongue. But he didn't feel like stumbling around in the dark to find more water. He'd rinse his mouth in the morning. With a sullen grunt, he flipped over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

Why did Grimmjow even send me? He damn well knows I hate fucking around with politics. Blue haired bitch. He could have picked someone else of high station. He didn't have to send the second highest ranking officer in the Amistri army. He didn't have to send him.

"Gonna skin that sunova bitch when I get back." Nnoitra growled muffled, mutinous threats into his pillow. It was good stress relief. But hell... he couldn't touch a hair on Grimmjow's head. Not unless he wanted his head removed. Exhaling, Nnoitra glared into his pillow.

It was ironic. As a new recruit, he'd been so ambitious, so eager to rise through the ranks and make something of himself. He didn't want to be one of those market guards or a soldier of fortune. He didn't want to be mediocre or not good enough. Nnoitra wanted power. He wanted recognition. He wanted to spit in the faces of everyone who called him Roma gutter trash and watch them writhe under his boot as he gloated. Nnoitra wanted to be someone who no one could order around.

And it had been difficult. The Academy wasn't an easy place to survive in when one had a disability. The first year, he was persecuted mercilessly. But he had something none of those Academy brats had. He'd already been surviving for years in the most cutthroat districts of Amistri, and no wellborn pieces of shit were gonna crush him down. He'd more than shown them... he'd caught the attention of the man who would become the prime war general of the Amistrian army, and while riding the coattails of another to power wasn't his idea of a perfect victory, he wasn't too proud to take advantage of opportunity when it presented itself.

The things he'd done to get there... they didn't matter. Didn't matter how he'd clawed his way up from the slums to one of the most exalted positions in the empire. He'd gotten there... and he'd soon realized that instead of being free, he'd only succeeded in binding himself more tightly. When he was a soldier, he obeyed his commanding officer. When he was a general, he bowed his head to the bureaucracy of an empire. He was expected to behave with decorum. He was collared by laws and politics.

Nnoitra chafed under these restrictions, these responsibilities. And he resented being leashed and paraded about like a favored pet. Fuck, he was no aristocrat. He wasn't interested in sitting pretty with a decorative sword on his hip and silk on his body. He was a soldier. Always would be. He preferred the adrenaline rush of a battle to tedious meetings any day. This job Grimmjow had sent him on... this was the worst possible assignment he could have given him.

With a final, disparaging grumble, Nnoitra shifted to lie on his side and pull the covers over his body. As he closed his eye, he swore he saw the ornate tapestry that decorated the wall flutter... but his weary mind informed him that this was impossible. The breeze circulating through his room was very light, and the tapestry was weighty... and he was really too tired to care much further than that.

-.-.-.-.-.-

Waking up was a bitch. The instant he came to, Nnoitra was assaulted by one of the worst migraines of his life.

Ah... shit...

It was like having a really bad hangover, with the added benefit of flu-like symptoms. His entire body ached, and his skin was damp with perspiration. The sickness had overtaken him during the night, rendering his limbs feeble with febrile weakness. Flushed and burning up, but thankfully free of nausea, Nnoitra lay in bed, wishing he could die and escape the pounding headache that split his head and the chills that shivered through him. Hot… cold… hot… cold… and thirsty as hell. Squinting, he searched for the pitcher of water he knew was somewhere and located it on his dresser.

Too far… he dreaded the prospect of getting up and walking over to get it. But his thirst was inexorable. His throat felt like it would shrivel up and close at any moment, and he was half crazed with fever, so after another minute of cursing, Nnoitra sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. As his bare feet touched down on the chilly floor, Nnoitra's body gave a particularly violent shudder that left him gripping the edge of the mattress and panting.

"Damn it…" he breathed, refusing to whimper as he rose shakily and took a step, almost immediately falling back on his ass. He clung to the bed frame, lips pulled down in a grimace of pain and resentment. That fucking mage… he'd done this to him. Pushed his body farther than it could handle.

A touch of hysteria brought a burble of laughter to his lips as he leaned his face into his upturned palm. Brought to such a state by a fruity bastard like him? Pathetic. Oh… he was losing his touch... Staggering to his feet again, Nnoitra wove unsteadily over to the dresser, leaning against it heavily when he arrived. Not bothering with the cup, he grabbed the water pitcher and drank it straight, managing to spill some of it on himself in the process. He didn't care that it dribbled down his bare chest; the cool water felt good. He only broke away to suck in a sorely needed breath of air.

Sated for the moment, the man let his head rest in his arms and just stood there. He didn't want to get dressed… he didn't want to put up with His Royal Apathy. He just wanted to sleep this off. Cause no one really cared whether he showed up or not… it was just that they were playing this game. Keeping up appearances. Pretending peace and diplomacy. Just the kind of shit he hated. With a reluctant groan, he detached himself from the dresser and swayed on his feet for a moment before finding his balance and walking over to his trunk.

He pulled out clothes by feel, noticing only when he brought them over to the bed that his shirt was way too purple and flashy and damn Grimmjow for having a twisted sense of humor and why the fuck couldn't he have chosen something less eye-bleedingly bright? Fuck it, he was wearing a leather vest over this, and screw proper palace attire at least the pants were a respectable color but that still didn't make up for the shirt and god damn did his head hurt and why did the laces have to be so hard to tie and his fingers so slippery and clumsy today? Nnoitra shoved his feet into boots, strapped on a short sword, and left his room, half reeling as he walked.

He didn't have the patience to knock lightly on Ulquiorra's door. His fist fell against the wood in a single, heavy thunk, after which he waited. Nnoitra heard the faint sound of footsteps as Ulquiorra approached, followed by a soft scraping as the door was opened. Ulquiorra peered up at him, expression as indifferent as usual. After a moment, the pale man made a most perceptive observation.

"You look like shit."

Ha ha. Wasn't he charming?

"Good mornin' to ya too, princeling," Nnoitra replied sarcastically.

"Don't breathe on me. Your mouth smells like a cesspit."

"Pardon. Yer mage pet almost killed me."

"Perhaps he should have," Ulquiorra replied in a flat, emotionless tone as he eyed him with distaste. Nnoitra sneered, grinding his tombstone teeth.

"Ya, perhaps he should have," Nnoitra agreed. Ulquiorra's lips thinned, and he turned away after another moment, walking back over to a tall mirror where he resumed combing out his hair. Not that it needed fixing; it looked well enough the way it was.

"Come in and close the door. And lose the attitude. You forget your place, Gilga," the prince said. Nnoitra obeyed, reluctantly, wishing he could have been assigned to someone else. Anyone else. Hell… he might have even tolerated being the princess' guard, much as he held women in contempt. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you."

"Yeah?"

Nnoitra had a pretty good idea what this "discussion" would be about, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly.

"Yesterday afternoon, we visited a certain establishment. There was a business transaction conducted. I want that kept private. No one else is to know," Ulquiorra said. Nnoitra's lips quirked up in amusement despite his painful headache. Business transaction. Cute. Real cute. So they were playing with euphemisms now.

"Didn't plan on tellin'," Nnoitra replied gruffly when the prince looked over at him for confirmation. "Anythin' else?"

"No." It was a long, awkward minute before Ulquiorra replied, but when he did, he answer was tacit. Setting aside the comb, he turned back to Nnoitra. "That was all. Go sleep. I will inform my father that you are ill today."

Brushing past him, the young royal left the room. The wordless dismissal was clear; Ulquiorra had no need of him and did not want him hanging about. Which suited Nnoitra just fine. Pulling the door shut behind him, Nnoitra trooped back down the hall to his room. He paused long enough to light a fire in the grate, though he nearly burned himself in the process, tired as he was. Sucking a slightly singed thumb, Nnoitra ambled over to bed, shucking his shoes, vest, shirt, and belt and rolling into bed for more well needed rest.

In hindsight, he should have realized he wouldn't be left to his own devices the whole day.

A/N: Orz, I haven't updated in a while. I'm sorry the first thing I have to give you guys to read is a measly, skimpy, fillery filler chapter.

Xylexia, I promise I will write awesome things for your story in the future. This just isn't one of those awesome things. Ryoko, I'm afraid you're going to have to continue your quest, for this chapter isn't particularly interesting.

That aside, hello to any new readers who found this via the beautiful fanart Xylexia commissioned for this fic. If anyone hasn't checked it out, you can see it here (be sure to take out the spaces, since FF.N likes to eat links):

ht tp: / / moni158 . devian tart. com / gallery / ?off set = 24# / d3k883q

Next chapter should be more interesting. If my muse cooperates, you should get to meet a few new characters and get a better look at one you've already met. And hopefully the next update won't take nearly so long.

PS. I don't know if editing a chapter and replacing content sends out a message. If it does, I apologize for any possible notifications editing may generate.