none of it had mattered to him, not then. not even when kurosaki ichigo had stood there before him, looking up into his face, had aizen sousuke cared in the least as to what those people thought or felt in those moments. he had simply looked at them with that cold stare as if waiting to see whether or not they would listen to a man who had fallen before his betrayal a century before. and it seemed, ultimately, that they would indeed do so. he pressed his lips together voluntarily, keeping himself mute even as he ignored the discussions of what they would do with him. their soutaichou was dead and all that anyone knew now was merely that there had been a blurt of alarm thanks to a man who had been reinstated -- but he was nowhere to be found. how that brown eye never met any of those accusatory stares. he had merely turned his head towards the horizon, gazing towards something only he was aware of.

he did not even bat an eye when he had felt the dryness of that hollow's reiatsu surging nearby from his captain. none of those here, none who were arrayed to try and attack him, mattered in the least to the man who had so easily decimated them two years before. no, he would not attack them - but aizen suspected, coldly, that the same was not true from their own views. if anything, he rather expected that they would indeed find some reason or excuse to attack him for what had happened.

semantics.

he had only looked down at that haori turned inverse when shinji had thrust it at him, as if to expect him to put it on with the turquoise lining exposed now. something for him to cover up with and then, mildly surprised, had only shaken his head even as he thought of what he had said. of how he was the only one, so far, who had met the enemy leader and had emerged unscathed. he didn't see himself as unscathed.

aizen didn't want to wear that haori. he had known, from the first time that he had ever put it on, that he was only borrowing it. once upon a time, he had been content to remain merely the fukutaichou of the gobantai, wooden badge on his arm pressing warmly to the bicep beneath the layers of fabric. he had taken care of that badge, had oiled it and polished it with beeswax until it had glowed. he had been so proud to be the adjutant to hirako shinji. but he had known the haori was not his. if he had truly wished to, he could have advanced to a captain's position long ago. he knew it. and perhaps his captain would have let him go. or perhaps not. it was nigh impossible for even him to say whether or not he would have been obstructed or supported in pursuing such an endeavor by the lanky blonde. but he would not wear the haori again. when he, gin, and kaname had abandoned the seireitei, aizen had discarded the haori which he had worn on that day to hang it in the closet in his quarters within las noches. he had debated burying it, burning it, destroying it in some form or fashion ... but it had not felt appropriate, somehow, to do that.

he had gone to the eighth, then to the twelfth, and spoken to mayuri of this so-called roadmap which yhwach had bestowed upon him. he had never liked kisuke's successor; a sneaking man, middling in any capacity, and one who he rather imagined would have but to deal with many things. the twelfth had been leveled, he had heard, but some things remained intact and he had answered those questions as best as he was able. dressed in the simple black and white uniform once more, with tabi and waraji on his feet, he looked once more very similar to that role he had maintained for so long. but there were differences too; the eye patch which he still wore, the styling of his hair, the lack of those square-rimmed glasses which had once been his signature look. no more did he look the shaggy pup; this was a wolf that paced with steel teeth bared and a fire in that eye of brown. but he allowed himself to listen to what it was that mayuri had to say, paying heed only to what was discussed to figure out how to set him on his path. 

if he could have, he would have gone on his own but he knew, too, that such would not be permitted to him. not with how the man who had once claimed him for lieutenant seemed intent upon hovering. aizen paid no heed to the rain that was the funereal shroud for yamamoto. he cared nothing for the wounded and the dead. perhaps if his mood had been better he could have turned that monstrous power of his to their aid. but all that mattered to him was getting that understanding he required of this roadmap which yhwach had laid out for him. 

a storm was brewing. within his soul, within his mind, within his bones.

he did not care how it was understood so long as it was and as soon as he knew there was a way for him to go to where he wished, aizen did not hesitate. he merely tilted his head as he listened to the explanation but never did that singular brown eye waver from the face of the man who had taken over the twelfth in the wake of urahara's exile. never did his focus shift in the least. whether it disconcerted mayuri or whether he ignored it, it did not matter. aizen merely nodded once with impatience as he listened to the man speak of it. 

the result was not like that of a garganta nor a senkaimon but something else. he had no way to describe what he felt beyond fluid. yet how he merely adjusted the shihakusho he wore and then plunged forward. there would be no one here with him but that man that had tried to push the haori at him and there was, too, a strange sense of inversion for a moment. it felt very akin to the shikai which had been revealed on him that day but it did not matter. aizen had trained himself with his kanzen saimin relentlessly; he was a master of his own senses and that had never changed. not then and not even now. a coldness, a shock through his system -- and then, suddenly, an emergence to stand on grounds and leaving him to stare upwards at a building with vast architecture. it made him think briefly of las noches but that wasn't the important thing.

as soon as he had stepped from the shadows and upon these grounds, the sensation of GIN'S REIATSU WAS BLOOMING IN HIS AWARENESS. he had sensed him, somehow, if only vaguely. he had told them, those fools of the seireitei, that gin was alive. he had ignored any arguments of whether or not they could trust him. it hadn't mattered. he had known gin was alive -- he had hoped. he had trusted in that hope, no matter how frail and feeble it had seemed. and as soon as the shadows were left to slide away from his body, that awareness was there, nestling in the back of his head. gin, who had been scared when he had been vanished with yhwach and those quincy. gin, his gin, the moon in his sky -- his tsukiyomi. gin, who he had prayed was not dead despite every lack of faith and belief in such higher powers, was in there. his eye snapped about towards where he could sense the source of that power and he wanted to breathe in. but more than that was the anger which was rising within him, an anger that was so vast and deep that he could not have begun to name the depth of it. oh, this was not the anger of a mortal.

THIS WAS THE WRATH OF A GOD.

the fury which had been building for the last hour, since the moment that yhwach had disappeared with gin in hand to go strike down yamamoto, was a sudden storm of ice within his body and his soul. and more than that was a sensation of something cold and dark that seemed to rise within himself, within his soul -- something that seemed ready as he was to rip this place APART. he paid little mind towards the creeping of the cold within his veins. he paid no heed to what it might have been. all that he knew was that gin was in there -- gin, who had been dead for two years. gin, who had fallen beneath the strike of his kyoka suigetsu no matter how much aizen had struggled against it, no matter how he had shrieked his desperation within his very soul.

the air began to thicken, curdling with raw killing intent, even as aizen's lips drew back from his teeth in a feral snarl. there was no withholding it, not when he had been so kindly invited to this parlance by the very leader of the quincy who had decided to step forth into the tomb of Muken to draw aizen's attention to him. to, what it seemed to the brunet, offer him a job. that was how it had read and the scorn of but a short while ago had yet to abate. here and now, there was a true chance that the lanky man who had seemed willing to take up the mantle of responsibility might find himself slammed to the ground thanks to the way the particles of air seemed to grind together whilst a violet overcast began to permeate the atmosphere. there was no attempt on aizen's part to hold back and he would engulf the whole of this place in his grasp if he could, within his own power. it was heavy, that power, cold and fraught with the promise of death; this was something he had withheld himself from on that day until kurosaki ichigo had arrived to put a stop to his efforts. there was every chance that the older man would have to struggle to breathe, if not outright keep his thoughts running. for this was the anger that had burned in aizen sousuke's soul becoming manifest, rippling wavering tongues of fire seeming to grow to crown shoulders and head. it was not the burning brightness that had adorned yamamoto; this was the boiling surface of the sun turned in on itself. 

this was the pulsing heart of a black hole, drawing all matter and light inwards.

anger was, as he remembered saying once to gin so long ago when he had been still a boy, a useless emotion. anger made you reckless. anger could make you stupid. anger could mean losing control of yourself. how that had come back to haunt him. how many talks had they had? how many times had gin come to him with questions, seeking to understand the man he'd call boss with a sly grin that had never quite been openly mocking? how many late nights had they spent together, discussing many things, sharing in their views? how brilliant the little viper had been, coiling himself willingly first around aizen's wrist, then later draping those strong coils of silver over shoulders and looping around the proud neck? such was how aizen had ever felt him. for two years, for two years he had been dead. for two years, aizen sousuke had screamed out into the dark against what he had done.

FOR TWO YEARS, HE HAD BEEN CERTAIN THAT HE HAD KILLED THE MOONLIGHT OF HIS OWN SOUL.

anger, right now, seemed entirely apt to the situation at hand.

aizen didn't even think on what he was going to do. he didn't think twice on it as his hand lifted and words began to spill from his mouth, a guttural snarl distorting his voice as he spoke, palm facing the front of the palace. yhwach had invited him so he might as well ANNOUNCE HIMSELF ---

❝ howling tempest, rising storm! clouded eyes and tongues turn to ash! rise and become the fang of the sky, fall and become the belly of the earth! thunder steel, crimson rock, unbind thyself in the heart of the tempest! hadou #88: hiryuu gekisoku shinten raihou! ❞

out thrust his hand, fingers spreading wide and palm facing the architecture as the very atmosphere BOOMED before the eruption of what burst forth. this was not the simplistic display on that night that he had found this kido lancing towards him courtesy of tsukibishi tessai. that had been a storm of lightning and reiatsu. this display was as if one had gathered every storm in the world, all the lightning that could be birthed in the hearts of storm clouds, and woven it into the bar of blinding blue-white destruction that filled the air. this was not a kido so much as it was simply destruction. like liquid lightning, like the heart of the storm. there was no attempt to do more than close his eye to the flaring of lightning that erupted from his hand, yet even though his eye was shut, the actinic flare of it nearly blinded him. he had not cared to warn the man who had come with him, had not bothered. either shinji would have seen what was coming as his power had swelled into the air and would have shielded his face from it or he would be left blinded. the phosphorescent brilliance of the strobing power tore at the atmosphere and the building before himself, claws of storm-born wrath ripping into the architecture and destroying it, leaving debris and rubble to blast inwards. no heed was given to the quincy who likely dwelt inside, those who likely had been consumed as a shock wave of air blasted back towards himself and the older man. he did take enough care to step between it and shinji, yet how the air still was left to howl as steam rose in hissing wreaths of misty ribbons from where the ice which had so coated this place had flashburned into vaporous columns of super-heated water. 

he barely waited for the last particles of the kido to depart from his hand before he was striding forward without thought or care to the ruin he had wrought. ever and always had aizen's power been something he contained, going through the world bent in on himself, shoulders hunched and head bowed. he had blunted himself for the sake of others around himself, choosing to do so simply because it had ever been convenient for him. it was well known that captains suppressed their power out of courtesy to their subordinates and even when gin had become a captain in his own right, aizen had still withheld much of his power.

there was, however, no reason for him to hold back now. there was no reason for him to care about holding back. he had gin's location firmly fixed in his head and already his hand was lifting again to snarl out the words of another kido.

❝ ye lord! mask of blood and flesh, all creation, flutter of wings, ye who bears the name of Man! inferno and pandemonium, the sea barrier surges, march on to the south! hadou #31: shakkaho! ❞

how the atmosphere seemed to SCREAM as aizen's power once more was brought to bear with a second explosion formed from the kido he had unleashed. during the winter war, he had created a tsunami of lightning with a raikoho, not even bothering to name or number it. here, with the chants focused into increasing the power of those kido, the destruction was unparalleled. 

the front of the building was simply no longer there for perhaps a third of the way across its breadth from where he had unleashed the first kido. the second one was an explosion of fire and super-heated air, turning the architecture of the quincy environment into nothing more than dust-laden rubble. that sweltering wave of air was a coughing roar as the very atmosphere shook with the impact of such heat rising suddenly from the edges of the building where it had been reduced to slag, smoldering and drooping upon itself. rock could melt, under enough heat. even stone could burn. he gave no thought to those who must have died with those two kido for he was striding forward, moving past the rising steps that rose on either side of him and onto the air itself without leaving himself to step upon the molten surface beneath his feet. if yhwach had expected anything else for his arrival, then that was just too bad, wasn't it? his fury was a fine thing, a vintage that had become sharp and acidic to tongue and throat alike. how fully he pulled that power about himself, wreathed in the tumultuous rising of purple that wafted from shoulders and head alike. 

there was little effort to reign in that power either, likely crushing those who were not strong enough to tolerate it to the floor and forcing expiration upon them. but he was here. he had been invited. they could not be put out by how he had responded to it. those brown strands of hair were left drying swiftly thanks to the heat that was caused by the kido's aftermath and he continued onward until he found himself finally stepping onto the cold stone flooring and lifted his chin slightly before his voice roared into the air.

❝ i am here, quincy! you wished to speak with me, after all! ❞

he was here and yet even as he spoke, aizen's head turned, his body, turned towards where he could feel gin. he didn't care about welcoming parties, didn't care who might be there to greet him after that display of fury. he was going to go to gin without hesitation and either his one-time captain could trail along after him or he could stay and wait and apologize for aizen's behavior. it didn't matter. the purpose of coming here had been to find gin and to pull him free.

one way or another, he would find his way to gin before any chance of parlay was to occur, no matter who he had to go through.

gin was the important one here. gin was the reason for his being in this place. once he could see him, once he could get him out of here -- maybe then he might actually take a few seconds to consider actually speaking with yhwach.

so, uh . . . has anyone ever gotten a straight answer outta the guy?

hirako shinji never thought about what he would do last before death.  it was a stupid question. even stupider when asked of a shinigami. he didn’t know what younger generation of shinigami considered themselves to be — warriors, perhaps? protectors? shamans or ferrymen? — either way, he was a soldier.  a soldier didn’t have the luxury of planning his last wishes.  he would hope that he spends his last moments protecting someone, helping someone, or simply enjoying someone.  but he also knew, more likely, that it would be fighting for his own life, while attempting to take another’s.

it wasn’t a very optimistic outlook, nor a comforting picture. but he had chosen this so others could get a chance at optimism and comfort. perhaps it was topsy turvy; those who made a conscious choice and put in effort should suffer punishment, and those who simply went with the flow and averted crisis and conflict shall reap the fruit of peace. but much of life was like that. and he was not one to shy from the inverted and seemingly counterintuitive world.

but he wished he would be less fucking scared by now.

there had been too many wars in his lifetime. each one fucked with his head more than the last. he remembered obliteration, bodies falling from the sky like chunks of red hail. remembered blinding light, flashes of white and momentary darkness, that each time felt as though they could be permanent. he also remembered blood; a torso falling in his arms lighter than it was supposed to, lighter than he knew than he was used to — it was the lightness that was the most unnerving. coldness running up his back like ice even while his arms were drenched in hot, hot, hot, hot blood.

… god, he was TERRIFIED.

terrified of losing her, terrified of losing to him.   aizen sousuke … AIZEN SOUSUKE WAS THE MOST TERRIFYING WAR HE HAD FOUGHT IN HIS LIFE.  a war he can’t prevent; a war he had lost before it even started; a war of magma and heavens; a war on another level that felt nearly, nearly out of his reach.

but he fought it nonetheless. bloody and beaten in the end like the old warhorse he was. his only solace, his last accomplishment was that he had dragged the chariot there, had stalled for long enough until the young stallion reached the field.  kurosaki ichigo … the last thing he did was to wait for his arrival.

it all felt too familiar now. they were again waiting. waiting for the salvation of youth in the midst of chaos and old history.  bodies were falling. white uniforms, black uniforms, and all flesh-color corpses.

that’s when he felt it.  A FLASH OF LIGHTNING PASSING HIM, a supercharged wind, nearly knocking him off his feet. and he turned instinctively to the direction in which the bolt came. it was long gone by then, of course, in the blink of an eye.  but what filled his vision was another terror unmatched by any other.

kurohitsugi.

one of the highest level kido and despairingly deadly, rising out of the ground like a black tower of doom.  it dissipated like ribbons of shadow, followed by the dust storm of a building decimated and the pressure of monstrous reiatsu flooding the streets of seireitei. he had to keep running to avoid feeling his knees shaking in the loose garment of the shinigami shihakusho. just keep going — that’s how you deal with aizen sousuke — the singularly biggest threat in his life. 

“Stay in your post! Stay with your squad members.”  he shouted at the other shinigami as he ran toward the opposite direction, toward the first division. he locked eyes with the nearest visored; all recognizing simultaneously aizen sousuke’s reiatsu springing free.  he was grateful then that hiyori did not return to gotei 13 with the rest of them, because there was no way she would’ve listened to his next command:

“Don’t follow me no matter what!”

he shunpo in a flash. was he slower than usual? he felt slow. heavy. like all three enormous reiatsu crushing down on him making his limbs soft and weak. his throat tightened, baked dry by yamamoto’s flames.  and the unsettling sensation needling at his spine from the brief passing with the entity that just rushed past him. eating at him, like an erosion; an impending doom — the tendrils of atrophy clinging to his long, narrow legs… but he put all those behind him. all his concern and doubt and wariness of the unknown, and put his attention toward the one subject in front of him ——

his curse. his sin. his unfinished business.

“Stop right there.”   he found himself on top of what was now the rubble of first division, and the collapsed muken beneath.  sakanade drawn. his captain’s haori fluttered in the wind as he faced his nightmare and haunting. a terror incarnate.  “—- Sousuke.”

his eyes cut. tossing aside sakanade’s sheath as proof of his resolve, he affixed his gaze upon the jailbreaker, at possibly the worst ever time.  he will stop him this time. shinji decided. he will stop him even if he had to use his bankai, to give it his all. even if it killed him.

“In case ya ain’t notice, we’re havin’ a bit of a situation here. I dunno how ya got out but we really ain’t got time for yer dramatics right now, Sousuke.  So sit down an’ wait yer turn!”

                aizen sousuke knew what it was he had done in those moments before his death, when long fingertips had reached out to the bare skin of his chest, when that head had bowed, when shoulders clad in white had seemed slumped rather than triumphant and a voice flavored by an accent he knew so well to the point where he himself was sure he could do a passable imitation of it had spoken the words which had been the crux of his murder. he knew what he had done in those seconds when his gaze had seen gin's hand reaching out and coming to settle upon the blade he carried. his kyoka suigetsu. a piece of himself. of his soul.

                i entrusted you with a piece of my soul -- he had thought. i entrusted this to you. because i knew it would come to t his one day. but not here. why does it have to be here and now. why now--? gin -- 

                in those seconds, in the void of every heartbeat for his chest had been wrought into emptiness through the blooming of that flower of poison wh ich had corroded his anatomy, eroding away the heart, the lungs, the ribs and spine and more, stabbing upwards and leaving that torso gaping, a wound whispering and growing and yet he had managed to reach out with that left hand, that left arm, reaching for gin. not the rock -- not that -- he had reached for gin, had sought to grasp at him. he was dying. he had known he was dying as those legs had bent and he had found his torso falling backwards. how his hair had streamed like ribbons of swirling brown in his vision, like trails of ink in pale water and above him, the sky -- look to the sky and smile --..... look to the sky and--

                gin.

                the name had ridden down into the dark with him. WHAT WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU DO BEFORE DEATH? --- a name. a name that had been the coin, gilt in silver, a thing designed for the ferryman. the mythology of old, the currency for the one who had surrendered their existence and proceeded to find themselves upon the mortal coil's ending. he had spoken a name. a name, twice over, as if to conceal his eyes with the flash of silver that had been his name. as if he would grip it tight between his teeth and he had reached out, only to find himself upon the street of karakura town, betrayed and yet not ( i brought you with me because i was curious to see how you would kill me. ) and still yes betrayed.

                he had had plans for if they lost. if he lost. of what would happen. of what they would do. of course he had anticipated it. there would always be factors he would not plan for in any given situation, things which he would not see coming which would force him to adapt. that was ever the case.  but contingencies were ever in place. contingencies that would have seen them through many things as they had before. that was in aizen sousuke's nature. to plan, to anticipate, to think dozens, even a hundred, ten hundred, steps ahead of others. that was his nature. that was his way of being. it was the crucible upon which he had been forged so long ago. 

                and yet he had not anticipated this he had not anticipated suddenly learning that gin was ALIVE. that gin was there before himself, leaving aizen doubting his eyes and believing too in equal measure while he'd stared, hungry, rapt, in but a drifting second. the snake that had always been there to drape over his shoulders, the one who had been his shadow. a silver thing, pacing after aizen with ease, smiling as aizen smiled too, theirs a relationship which had been birthed over a hundred years ago beneath a moonlit night where he had seen for himself just what this child who'd burned through the academy within a singular year had been capable of. such a pity it was that aizen had chosen the old third seat for that process. truly, a pity. nevermind what he had heard some weeks prior. nevermind that he had been coming to collect his captain to the monthly meeting. keeping himself concealed in those moments had been natural enough. and how his eyes had hooded slightly behind his glasses with what he'd heard, with what he understood in those moments. 

                a fine way of seeing the boy's skill -- and a fine way, too, of seeing this problem removed from his captain's perception of things.  how he had not been bothered by that, smiling his smile as he had praised the youth who'd stood over the gutted third seat, entrails spilling in slick red ropes into the grass. so many questions had come forth -- so many things he wanted to ask him. oh -- so many things which he wanted to know. so many things which had been slowly played out between them.

                those were the moments that had been there in his head when he had died. those were the thoughts which had had him reaching out. WHAT WILL BE THE LAST THING YOU DO BEFORE DEATH? aizen sousuke had had his answer two years ago. he had had his answer in how he had reached for gin while he had fallen. he knew what the last thing he had done before he died had been. he could have answered that question easily. he could have said so if it had been posed to him.

                he had reached for gin. 

                gin, gin gin--!

                gin, here, in the dark. gin, held by a quincy and another lifting that sniper rifle ( a quincy with a gun, a ludicrous thought that -- ) and pulling the trigger. that one, aizen decided in those microcosms of fractional seconds, he would take apart with his bare hands. that one, when he saw him again, would be the one he would eliminate FIRST. that one --- and how he would have lashed out here and now if he could have at him to take the three quincy apart. but no. no, gin was held tight by the dark-haired man who looked as if he was having a very bad day. gin, cradled there in that grip and the other quincy lifting that gun and PULLING THE TRIGGER BEFORE AIZEN'S VERY GAZE IN THE WAKE OF THE KUROHITSUGI WHICH HAD BEEN A STATEMENT ALL ITS OWN.

                and then they were gone.

                they were gone and aizen found his mind ringing with the fading sensation of something he could not speak of having felt from gin in years. fear. fear -- he had been afraid he had been fearful he had been -- 

                gin had been AFRAID and they were GONE.

                what came next was an unfurling of power, of seals snapping and shattering, of POWER ROARING THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE OF THE DEPTHS OF MUKEN. it was a star being birthed, a collision of strength unlike any other into the air over the whole of seireitei. was this that creature of fel ruin reborn? was this the birthing of something monstrous and cruel wrapped in violet fire once more--? ah, how many would be asking that he was sure. but to tear muken open was a thing of ease; the eruption of his own wrath akin to a titan of old stirring and shaking off the mountains which had grown over its form. this was vengeance and fury and more, more, more -- this was divinity's growth and the barracks of the ichibantai, the whole of muken -- yes, they were very much no longer a part of the landscape.

                later, pieces of the area might be found nearly ten kilometers distant. it had been a display of force that might have been deemed, perhaps, EXCESSIVE.

                he did not know of the warning that had been flung across the seireitei . he did not care if his display of irate temper had been enough to make heads turn and make it clear that he was no longer bound in muken. the air was seething as he stepped across pieces of rubble, violet creating a casting of coloration to the atmosphere overhead. tattered were the bindings which draped across torso and arms and legs, for the kurohitsugi turned upon him leaving power suddenly breathing around the former captain. the heat of yamamoto's reiatsu was being pushed aside, suddenly, shunted and elbowed out of the way for there was a different force which was rising, coming to expanse, the curling of his weight seeming to bear down upon everything in its own accord. 

                and then -- suddenly -- there before him stood a man he had seen only once in the last hundred years. a man who he had smiled at politely and seethed t behind his smile, a man whom he had stood over there in the dark as he had watched those eyes.  ( do you see me now--? he had wanted to ask. do you see me now where you  never did before never before even when your shoulders blotted out everything and your hair veiled my face--? ) he had watched those eyes, the dawning in them that no -- even now, even here, the man he had always called his captain had never seen him. there, in the dark, with kaname and gin at his sides -- he had smiled at his captain, watching as he had held to himself the longest out of all of the rest. 

                he had been the one who had fallen last.

you were all such wonderful test subjects.

thank you for going for my cheap taunt.

                words which had betrayed so much in that short span of time. the smile. the seething. how those eyes of brown had held nothing but coldness that night, the same eyes which had ever before peered at shinji with inquisitiveness, with the full of his attention, with a heated delight on nights when the light from the lamps would bounce in golden shine off of those thick brown curls and he would reach upwards, whispering for a kiss, for more. when he would find his nails in that back and the eyes which watched him hooded. how many times had he felt the weight of that stare on him, which had always  been enough to make aizen's head turn to peer to him with those soft brown eyes and how those soft lips would pull up into that smile. how he had smiled. he had always seemed ready with a smile. a smile, just for him. and he had smiled that night. he had smiled.

                he had seethed at him. he had seethed, quietly, behind that smile. how cold his gaze remained that night. and for a hundred years they had been apart .for a hundred years, they had not seen one another until a day when he had purred a statement at shinji that had drawn the man to him. come to me, he'd all but said even as he had extended his hand towards his captain and beckoned with those long fingers. come to me. YOU ARE MINE. for all of the niceties he had shared with hiyori over the years he had not cared if she had perished in that moment. she had not been the important factor on that day. not when shinji had brought his head upwards to stare up at him with murder in his eyes.

                WHAT A FIERCE LOOK. I FEEL AS IF YOUR EYES ARE ALIVE AGAIN AFTER A HUNDRED YEARS.

                gin had done that. gin had done that for him. gin had ensured that hirako shinji would give no thought to anything else but facing off against the man who had torn him down and twisted him, breaking his soul. but hirako shinji’s hands were not bereft of cleanliness. for there were fingerprints to be found if one knew where to look. fingerprints which had been -- yes. they had been there before --... before that night. who had broken who first--?

                he barely gave sakanade a look, however, well aware of the katana that was grasped in the long-fingered hand. how well aizen knew the strength of those hands. he knew well what their shape was, the  weight of those palms, of how he yearned to have them digging into his hair and ruffling at the thick brown curls. that hand held to sakanade as if hirako shinji was ready to bury the weapon into his guts, the folded steel honed to an edge that could cut well. he knew well how it cut. he had a scar upon his arm from it. a scar on that day --- 

                and then, of all things -- he found himself being told to SIT and STAY.

                a very long silence rolled into place in the wake of those words as the singularly visible eye narrowed for a moment before he spoke, voice cool and far, far too calm for the power which was found in the air as it was allowed to become diffused. he had no care for what he felt, for the fact that yamamoto was there facing yhwach. for this moment, here, he found himself staring at his captain for the fact that shinji seemed to think that he would obey.

                ❝ how gratifying to see you as well, hirako-taichou, ❞ came his voice at last, though he did not pull his stare away from shinji's, hands curling slightly at his sides before he was moving a hand upwards to hook and curl his fingers into some of the bindings, yanking at them. more seals were coming undone, seals which he simply slid through. what ws perhaps unsettling was the fact that his voice was -- calm. calm, profusely so, calm in a way that could leave hairs on the back of one's neck rising for it was the calm one might feel while in the middle of deep waters with something vast and powerful circling below treading arms and legs. something that dwelt in those dark waters. would shinji suddenly find himself pulled under or would he be towed along in the wake?

                ❝ did you really just tell me to sit and stay right now--? you say that you  have no time for  me? for me to SIT AND WAIT MY TURN? ❞ 

                this was not seething. this was something cold and alien and vast which was directed at shinji. this man was the only tie he had to the seireitei suddenly -- if the worst had happened, if what he had felt was true, if what he had beheld was REAL -- then this man remained his only tie and to see hirako shinji standing before him, shoulders once more draped in snowy fabric just like the haori he had seen gin wearing there within muken was not helping him right now.

                not when yhwach had swept them out of there and he was grasping at the bindings, yanking at them, tearing them free from his body to drop the looping strands of black material upon the rubble without care. he did not care if he stripped himself bare in this moment, pushing at the seals, undoing them, not while those eyes watched him. he dared to take a step forward, dark material hanging around his body as his eye remained narrowed, focused in upon shinji's face.

                ❝ i am not interested in playing the puppy for you right now, hirako shinji -- NOT when they have taken gin. not when yhwach has invited me to his court in the name of PARLEY. ❞ 

                not when gin could be dead.

it wasn’t that it faded out, no. it was simply drawn sharply into a solid break of whatever wrapped through these halls. it was unsettling to be here, as if the darkness watched those that stepped along these unhallowed grounds with unseen eyes, waiting to strike, ready to pounce. ready to twist and rend flesh and bone and nerves alike. the worst of the worst were kept down in these unlit halls, those that the seireitei deemed too heinous to execute, to strike down, lest they be decried as martyrs for their causes. no one knew, truly, of the extent of the prisoners that were kept here. but all knew of the most infamous one of recent memory that remained in this place.

yet more DISTURBING still was the lack of awareness of ground or ceiling or walls upon every footfall for the void was all consuming. even a glance downwards would give nothing away for it was a lightless sea in which they swam, moving along in a realm of which they were nothing but paltry intruders. and like all realms intruded upon, there was a god that remained enthroned, aware and unaware, asleep and not asleep, drifting ever on the edge of existence and oblivion both. such was the presence that they would be seeking out but it was difficult to name when they came close. it was seeping, slow, powerful, a presence of power that would not be understood nor comprehended easily, not at first. it was a blanketing thing, soft and subtle, weighty, strong -- a power that would not be conceived of easily. strong, strong enough to make skin ache and bones itch, strong and yet this was with but restraints, things that wrapped around a figure that would not be so easily excised, a cancerous tumor that would slowly seep softly, softly, throughout seireitei. such a sentence of time would only see him come through in the end. such a sentence would mean nothing if he but allowed himself to be lost in his own mind, his own memories.

memories were such strong things for they were what he walked now, the one they sought, unaware but oh so dangerous. dangerous was the cornered animal that had nothing to lose and it was the one that had taught the serpent of silver they kept close to their midst they sought out now. such a dangerous thing, that. foolhardy. but arrogance and overweening pride could be useful tools when it came down to it and their presence did not seem to have been noticed as of yet, the overwhelming sensation of that power soon too much to be paid heed unto, too potent, too dense, to be comprehended. of them all that stepped into these halls,only two would perhaps be capable of perceiving it in full - and one of them only by half, if that. suffocating. powerful. pressure, pressure upon the lungs, upon the spine, until it would seem as if they would be made to kneel, forced to crawl, forced to work upon hands and feet until moving by fingers and toes alone to pay obeisance to that which they sought to awaken and intrude upon.

more fool they.

a god was not to be awakened lightly for the wrath of the divine was a power unto itself and none had been so fractious as this god they sought now. arrogance served, had its place, but this was beyond arrogance, to step these halls and draw towards their prey being beyond arrogance, beyond the height of folly. but was turning back truly an option? perhaps not. not anymore. not with the goal so close. was it the air which changed as they drew nearer? or was it simply an awareness that swept over them, the eye of the divine turned upon the group, a presence of knowing they were there before they had even drawn close. hard to say. but it would never be a comfortable feeling for those that did not know what it was they would be encountering here. presumptions and more would be dangerous. best to leave all preconceived notions of what would take place upon the floor as no more than offal. no more than scraps of half-belief, no more than misguided hopes of understanding what would be awaiting them.

the THRONE of the god was a potent thing and guards were there to be found if one knew where to look. but with the whole of seireitei under siege, so many had been called away and of those that remained, only fools that would seek to keep the prisoners from the hands of others, of the possibility they would become free. what would it be that they would do, however, against such a group? so many that would cower away, not risking their lives, not for those that had been cast away and aside by the court guards, those that had been consigned unto this pit of damnation and darkness eternal. and of them all, they would not put their heads upon the chopping block for this traitor that had done so much to send shockwaves of upheaval throughout the realm that was so carefully guarded by those that should have been the ones to sucher such souls to their next cycle of life. and this one, more than most, was not the one that any of them would so willingly turn towards protecting. so it was that the entourage of strangers to these halls would not be barred or halted in any fashion. perhaps it was best that had been the case. perhaps not.

the change was sudden.

from darkness to worked rock their feet would land, stepping close and then closer still to the one they so eagerly sought. darkness, head bound, arms bound, eyes concealed, with nothing that betrayed an awareness -- but then a turning of that head, cloth slowly sliding downwards to reveal one eye of brown beneath a crown of black fabric. a god indeed, enshrined in that pelagic depth that contained nothing more than this one being. so close, it was impossible to sense his presence. had their eyes not been upon him, it would have been impossible to say if whether or not he was actually there. too vast, too powerful, too surreal to be beheld by the eyes of those that were as ants underneath the stare that laced across the group. had he been aware of their coming? or was it, as it seemed, the stirring of treacherous awareness from a state seemingly as if he had been ensnared in a dream? impossible to determine. impossible to know. none here, save one, could have read that gaze, languorous as it seemed, wickedly slow like honey oozing slowly from the exit of a bottle. it did not seem as if he were awake, no -- perhaps too long in the dark and he would merely think them a dream.

a deceptive thing, he, the insipidly vapid gaze sweeping upon one and then another and not even pausing upon sight of a figure in robes that were so familiar, a head crowned in flaxen silver and gripped tight that had been dragged down to the deeps of a place he had likely never wished to be entrenched in. one by one, the three quincy were taken in, measured, judged and weighed to the last ounce. yet the disconnected quality of that look did not seem to waver in the least. oh, not at all. only the merest glance returned upon gin and then at last, there was a slow sharpening of deepened maple into brightening amber, the clarity of bourbon illuminated by firelight in that stare and the chin lifted a degree as the weight of the god settled ever so slightly. slightly -- yet a tension that would not be denied was left to pulse through the air before that concealed mouth curled into a woefully malicious smile, concealed as it was. bound and hooded the falcon was, jesses caught tight, but with one singular eye to behold those that regarded the ones that had dared intrude upon a sanctuary that wrapped around the saint of deception, dangerously woefully unprepared as they were.

only one slight movement and then there was a settling, an awaiting.

if they wanted to speak, someone would have to be bold enough to see about getting that mouth uncovered and permit the freedom of a tongue coated in the subtlest poisons; dangerous indeed, to come here. 

dangerous, more still, to let this god speak.