CXV. Death of the Author
Explaining your plans to a gathered assembly of Espadas and Fraccions is exactly as daunting a task as you expected. You stumble a few times in your explanation, your eyes flick around for approval from Cirucci or your friends, to make sure the Fraccions are still paying attention, to see if your suggestions somehow offend their Espadas. But in the end, it all works out. You lay out your ideas, and they nod thoughtfully, and they raise no objection.
"Just to be clear," Ilforte says, looking at the outer edge of the map where the wall is outlined, "when you say we need to make sure the Gatekeepers don't interfere with the invaders, you're
not asking us to go and murder them? Because I like Dordonni."
"You're cute when you're concerned," Sung-Sun says, leaning against his arm with a mischievous look.
"I was already there when he was Espada," Ilforte says with slight embarrassment, "I know the man, I like his attitude, his way of life…"
"Are you sure it's not the shocking number of women making up his 'Hidalgia?'" Sung-Sun says playfully, and flushes. On each sides of the table, Grimmjow's pack and the other two Bestias all pull off an incredible coordinated eyeroll.
You clear your throat to draw attention. You would really rather they did not, in fact, kill the Gatekeepers. Bribery, intimidation, even, in extremis, violence within certain restraints… But they've already suffered enough over you when two of their members died fighting Luppi.
"Oh yeah," Luppi says cheerfully, "don't send
me to do that job, or we won't be having any Gatekeepers anymore!"
You give him a withering glare, and he beams at you.
"Stealing a sword is a bit of an ask," Mila Rose says, leaning over the table. "Sung-Sun's the only one of us that's kinda stealthy, and even then, she's more of an ambush snake than an infiltrator. Apacci's fast enough to pull off a smash-and-grab, but it'd be very obvious."
You were hoping witchcraft might come to the rescue.
"Hmm," she mutters, rubbing her chin. "Sympathetic connections maybe - but we'd need either access to the sword in the first place, which makes the point moot, or to involve Ichigo in a ritual, which would raise eyebrows."
Sympathetic connections… You grin. You may only be a beginner in the art of Brujeria, but you do understand the basics. You reach into your jacket and take out a scrap of black cloth, which you hand over across the table. Mila Rose reaches for it curiously, but Apacci is faster, snatching it out of your hand.
"Hell's that rag… Ooooh."
You grin. This is a piece of Ichigo's Shinigami uniform - an outfit which, uniquely, is in some way connected to his sword, and his own soul. It's not much, but it is definitely the start of a sympathetic connection.
"Yes…" Sung-Sun says, her voice trailing. "I believe we can do something with that."
You smile encouragingly, though in truth you are more the one being reassured. You turn to Jackelton - and he grins and gives you a thumb's up. He already knows what you're going to say, and it seems he is way ahead of you. He considers himself not the ruthless inquisition of Las Noches, but the one trying to uphold order and the safety of all; he will do his best to try and keep the Numeros and other stray Hollows out of the way and safe whatever happens. In fact, it would seem he already has an idea of
how to do it - although when you ask, he puts a finger to his lipless jaws and (somehow, despite having no eyelids) winks at you.
Your smile is strengthened. This… This is starting well. You only have one last thing to do. You reach in your jacket again and pull out a few paper cards, sifting through them while receiving curious looks. You pick one, and hand it to Grimmjow.
"What's this?" the Sexta says, frowning as he picks up the wide card and reads it. "'Zommari's reiatsu feels like gravity, pulls you in, makes it hard to look elsewhere - hypnotic powers?' What? 'Much faster than his rank would indicate, visual tricks, afterimage-illusions… Weak senses; failed to notice me and Luppi spying on him.' Are these notes on Zommari's powers?"
Not a lot; you only saw him for a short time, and only had the briefest demonstration of his combat style, but any help is good, right? You look expectantly at Grimmjow, and he gives you a suspicious look.
"...do you got the same for everyone?"
You regret that it isn't the case; you only have such data on people whose reiatsu you watched closely. You slide another card on the table - notes on what you've managed to glimpse of Szayel's powers as you worked with him on the Sarcophagus. His raw power is weak, weaker than Aaroniero's despite having been of higher rank, but there is a worm inside him, something malleable and deceitful, and he has used Cirucci to change his powers… What little you have is in there. You slide another card next to his, thick with scribbled notes on the Sarcophagus itself, its effects, its strength, its potential weaknesses (few as they are), and what you've managed to learn of the thing that was once Yammy.
Then you take another card, and pause, your face darkening. Sudden fear takes a hold of your chest, a icy hand on your heart, your lungs.
She warned you in advance, for all that perhaps you did not deserve it; you threw yourself in harm's way without warning her countless times before, after all, but she did not return the favor. She talked to you of her plan, and though you feared for her, you trust in her strength, but…
You still wish you were giving these notes to Harribel.
You turn slowly to Cirucci, and she averts her eyes, guilt well-concealed to others but quite obvious to you who know her so well. You delicately offer her the few notes you have on the opponent she hopes to fight - no, the mountain she intends to climb. You wrote of the demonic wings you saw in Ulquiorra's reiatsu, hinting at his gift of flight, and some strange power that is locked in him deeper than Resurreccion itself. It feels like so little.
She gently takes the card from your hand, brushing your fingers, and smiles.
"Don't worry," she whispers. "Don't worry about me. Not now, at least. That fight isn't coming yet. We will have another time before it all begins, and you can tell me you are worried, and I can tell you it will be fine. But for now…"
You nod solemnly.
You all have your tasks to fulfill.
***
Finding Tousen proves time-consuming. In a way, you find this amusing. Faced with the immensity of Las Noches, you used to simply surrender to it, to accept that it was almost impossible to simply find someone, and that any meeting would have to be arranged hours or days in advance, or require go-betweens, or waiting at someone's door for however long it would take for them to come home; that simply finding someone in an emergency was impossible. But now that you have mastered the art of Descorrer, you experience instead the tedium of opening door after door, sending out Pesquisas every time, until you finally locate your target. Opportunity leads to frustration.
The blind Shinigami is not in his apartment, nor anywhere inside the central fortress (you note, disquietingly, that you do not sense Aizen's presence either). It takes you a while before you think to check the
roof—and sure enough, you sense two Shinigami presences there, oddly unsuppressed. You are about to open another door, then think again. Instead you find one of the tall cuts in the rocks that pass for windows here, the morning air blowing in and dotting the floor with white sand. You pull that air around you, make of it a cloak of silence, and hop out onto the outer wall. Your cloak unfolds, catching rising thermal columns and lifting you up gracefully. You hover along the wall, occasionally kicking off it so that you don't have to burn your energy to keep flying, keeping you discreet.
You reach the flat expense of the stone roof, dotted with bulbous growths leading back inside. It feels like ages ago that you came here and found Gin and Luppi chatting together, back when you still considered the latter an enemy. And Gin is there again, same as last time—you can sense him from afar. You duck between the outcroppings of the roof, slinking like a shadow in the bright sunlight, until you come to a stop at one of the last. You lean just enough to see ahead to a wide, featureless ground empty of domes.
Gin and Tousen face each other, swords out. The silver-haired Shinigami smiles like he always does, holding his short tanto against his shoulder, while the dark-skinned man is breathing heavily—there are two cuts in his uniform, at the shoulder and on the left arm, red spots staining the pristine white.
"Again," Tousen says harshly. Gin sighs.
"C'mon, Kaname, ain't no point. This is literally what my sword is
made to do. If ya could beat it at its own game, what would I even live for?"
"Again!" Tousen shouts, and Gin's smile turns to a frown. He shifts his left foot back, holding his blade forward.
"Don't say I didn't warn ya," he says coldly.
You've seen this before, that stubborn resolve to try until it works that makes a simple spar into a deadly contest of pride. The two ex-Captains are a dozen yards apart; you expect a flash-step, the dizzying speed of an opponent as powerful as Gin trying to catch Tousen off guard, and the blind man dodging with his own Shunpo…
Instead Gin just strikes, a downward slice of his dagger-sized sword. You hear the hissing of the snake splitting the air, the perfectly controlled burst of reiatsu lasting less than a second, cold and hard and deadly, the coils unfolding as the sword
stretches. It covers the distance between the two men too fast for you to even see it extend, coming down like a guillotine. Tousen grunts and raises his sword in a parry, Gin's flexible sword bouncing off that defense.
But that sword truly is a snake. The very blow that pushes it back twists its shape, making it curve around Tousen's guard, and the tip of the blade lashes at his exposed back. It's a shallow cut but it takes him by surprise and Gin's sword has already retracted to its original length, Gin steps forward with a thrust, you feel a second burst of reiatsu, and his blade stretches again in a straight blow far more suited to its power. Tousen tries to adjust his balance and bring his own sword in another parry. You
feel the impact—at first the stretching blade fooled you into thinking it was a light thing made for pure precision, but the sheer
velocity of it, its momentum, gives it terrible strength. Tousen catches its tip with the edge of his blade and strains, teeth clenched, to push it away from its vitals. He manages to keep it from piercing his heart, but his shoulder pays the price, Gin's sword digging into the muscle and withdrawing instantly.
There is a sound like silk tearing as Tousen disappears. You can barely follow his reiatsu, a faint song on the wind, before he reappears behind Gin, his sword stained with his own blood but still held high. He strikes without his injuries slowing down or making his hand shake, a precise cut.
Gin twists his wrist without turning back, the tanto stretching and ripping his uniform to strike at Tousen's chest, and he must abort his attack, another flash-step taking him away—you hear a sour note in his song, then spot the drops of blood marking his invisible path. He stands a handful of yards away, panting, and you hear a sound of shattering glass.
The opaque visor covering Tousen's eyes shatters and falls to the ground in pieces, revealing his milky-white irises, staring nowhere. Blood drips from his temple.
Gin scoffs and whirls his sword between his knuckles, unconcerned, and indeed there is no follow-up assault.
"Everyone's got limits," the snake says, looking at Tousen with his eyes half-closed. "I'm yours, I guess. Ya'd do better with Kido, I think, but then I'd hafta
try and kill ya."
"I… refuse," the blind man says, gritting his teeth. You don't think he's grievously wounded—your trained eye can tell the wounds are mostly superficial, save for that one on his shoulder. Is it the cut to his pride making him look so worn down?
He does lower his sword, however, raising his left hand to his shoulder. Green light flares at his fingertips, and he weaves stitches of reiatsu through the cut, pulling it close. Healing arts like Captain Unohana's—you cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy.
"No Captain's ever worked as hard as ya," Gin says idly, laying the flat edge of his tanto to his shoulder again and cocking his head back, staring at the sky. "I respect that, ya know? Ya came from nothing, a blind guy from the Rukongai with a weak soul, and ya worked your ass off to make it to where ya got. But the world's unfair. Ya ain't no Kuchiki, no Kenpachi… Ya ain't no
me. Ain't that why ya took Lord Aizen up on his offer? And yet ya still aren't usin' it. Ya just keep tryin'a beat me in a sword fight. Why?"
For a moment the only sound is Tousen's breathing slowing down as he regains his composure, and the soothing sounds of healing magic weaving through his wounds. Not healing them, not truly—more of a rapid form of first aid, conjuring stitches and bandages out of reiryoku.
"Kenpachi," he says finally, his voice hoarse. Gin furrows his brow, looking back at him.
"Wha?"
"When I fought him," Tousen continues, "I shut off all of his senses but the sense of touch. He could not see, hear, smell me, nor perceive my reiatsu. And he still… Managed to dodge my attacks. He was
so fast, that in the instant my blade touched his skin, he would move out of the way before it cut. And when he grabbed my hand and struck me, I could not parry him, dodge him, escape the blow in any way. I was not merely utterly helpless; I was faced with a terrible kind of… Physical perfection. A level of speed and strength against which I was nothing."
"Hm," Gin says, tapping the tip of his sword against his cheek. "That's Kenpachi for you, tho. Whatcha can do about it?"
"You can do… the same," Tousen says. "Your Shikai provides this single, inescapable blow. Speed and strength. I can try to learn how to be fast enough to dodge it. Strong enough to parry it."
"Nah…" Gin says, shrugging. "Ya can't. Sorry."
There is a second of silence.
"I wish ya could see it," Gin says wistfully, looking up again. "Way the day turned to night… Never thought I'd see the like. Nothin' like in Soul Society. Big mouth o' darkness, gnawing out the sun, then it pulling free…"
"I can feel the heat changing," Tousen says in a low voice, "the shifts in the wind."
"Ain't the same," Gin says with a sad smile.
"Do it again," Tousen answers.
The silver-haired one frowns.
"What for? I already hurt ya enough. Lesson ain't sticking?"
Tousen takes a deep breath, straightening his back, and slides his sword back into its sheath. He takes on a low drawing stance, his right hand over the hilt, his left strangely raised to his face.
"Do it again," he repeats.
Gin sighs, kicking at a pebble, and walks back a few feet. Then he slowly faces Tousen, pointing his short sword at eye level, stretching his arm, his free hand holding it at the elbow as if to brace it.
"I ain't gonna spend all day cutting my friend to ribbons," Gin says coldly. "This time I'll call out its name. If ya ain't ready, yer dead."
And you hear Tousen's song again, but only now can you make out what it is; there is an harmony to it but it is born of something that should not make music, like blades grinding together in what should be a cacophony but ends up beautiful, like…
A cicada.
"Do it," Tousen says coldly.
"Kill 'im, Shinzou," Gin says flatly.
The sword stretches with perfect, iron finality. There is no snake, no hunger, no coils, no metaphor. Just the blade, and the target.
Tousen's left hand slides across his face and you see a flash of white. A swarm of locusts fills your mind, the chittering of a billion wings, a nomad swarm out to devour the world. He draws his blade with the jarring mechanicity of an insect's motion.
You repress a yelp, clasping your hands over your ears as a loud gong echoes across the roof, metal ringing against metal, and Gin's outstretched sword clips the roof above you, raining pebbles on your shoulders. In that moment of opening something shaped like Tousen blurs and crosses the distance. Gin slides back, swatting with his left arm to deflect an assault he cannot properly dodge. Cotton rips, flesh tears, you hear a footstep behind Gin - the Shinigami gasps, staggering, clutching his bleeding neck. Your eyes widen but—no, the wound is shallow, controlled.
Tousen's blade grinds its way back into its sheath. The perfect white slate of his mask catches the sunlight for one moment and reminds you of another eyeless mask you saw once before, on an empty plain. Then it shatters, falls to the ground like the visor did moments before, and Tousen exhales slowly.
"So," Gin says, trying to chuckle through the pain, blood slowly dribbling through his fingers, "that's the power the Wish-Stone grants, uh? Maybe I should have accepted his offer…"
"You're better off without it," Tousen says calmly, turning around. You catch a sight of him and… Something falling off his uniform, frayed fabric? Or…
The stitches. His wounds are perfectly healed.
"Do you want me to heal you?" Tousen says, and Gin laughs.
"Nah," he says, rubbing his neck, then pulling his hand away—the blood is down to a trickle. He begins to tear off the sleeve off his uniform to make a simple bandage. "I'm amazed. I thought a Hollow mask'd be about brute force, rage and stuff. But that was a perfect cut. Ya could have taken my head off but ya just nicked the skin."
"It's how you said," Tousen answers. "I had nothing else, so I practiced, endlessly. If there is one thing I have, it's control."
"Hah. Guess I should expect no less from the guy who came up with that famous 'fear your sword' line, eh?"
Tousen slowly nods.
"So," Gin drawls, "ya wanna try this one again 'cept this time I'm
not taken totally off-guard by your new power-up?"
"I…" Tousen begins, then leans down to pick up his broken visor, and sighs. "Maybe some other time. Thank you, Gin, for humouring me. But I… Using the mask… I think I need a moment to think."
"Heh, no problem," the other said, returning to his mischievous smirk. "Think I'll go bully some Numeros, make them think I'm about to die from that lil' cut and it'll be on them, that should be fun."
Slowly, unusually, a smile spreads on Tousen's face.
"You have dubious ways of entertaining yourself," he says, and his tone sounds more teasing than accusatory.
"What can I say, Luppi barely hangs out with me anymore, I gotta find my own fun now!"
"I hear he spends time around Grimmjow lately," Tousen says, his tone a bit off. You recognize it perfectly, from your own past—the tone of someone trying out casual conversation and unsure how to make it work.
"If there's one thing I won't do," Gin says with mock solemnity, "it's get between a guy and his sweetheart. If anything I'll bother him when he's around the Quinta. I can't believe I missed the opportunity to pester
her—she just hasn't been an Espada long enough for me to get 'round to it, I guess."
"Have a good day, Gin," Tousen says, picking up the last fragment of his visor and sliding it into an inner pocket.
"Ya too!" the snakes says cheerfully, and hops off the roof.
You breathe slowly, digesting all that you just saw and heard, bracing yourself to—
"You can come out now," Tousen says evenly.
Oh.
Of course he would. You're not sure what else you expected.
You clear your throat, brush the pebbles and dust off your uniform, and step out of your cover, putting a gracious mask over your discomfort. You know you were not meant to see what just unfolded—but you are sure Tousen knew you were there long before his sparring bout ended, which gives you hope he will not be too angry.
To your surprise, it's more than this; he smiles at you, though his smile is wistful, his eyes on the ground next to your feet.
"How did you like my mask?" he asks, only making you more uncomfortable.
It was… Frightful, you think. A cold white blank, featureless. A Hollow would have a mouth at least, if not eyes. You wonder if that makes him a… What was the word? A Visored?
"In a way," Tousen says with a shrug. "Sosuke told me he had refined the procedure after working on the advanced Arrancars, that I was a more
perfected design than these early experiments. I do not know if I believe it."
You're confused. From everything he told you, you would have thought the idea of infusing himself with Hollow power would disgust him.
"Oh, it did at the time," he says offhandedly, walking to the side of the roof. You follow, not sure what he's doing—certainly not admiring the sight. But he tilts his head back and… Ah, he is feeling the wind on his skin, in his hair, dreads dangling against his shoulders. "It felt like a grotesque but necessary compromise. I needed the power, you understand?"
You raise an eyebrow. He is a Shinigami Captain.
"I am—was," he corrects himself. "I was. And I have always been hailed as one of the most skilled of my generation, and the last. I was called 'one of the greatest swordsmen in the history of the Gotei Thirteen,' and was also a master of the Destructive and Binding Arts, as well as a competent dabbler in the Healing Arts. I wrote books, you know?" He chuckles at this as if at some foolish memory of childhood. "I wrote treatises on the art of the sword, both in its practical and spiritual aspects. Kuchiki Byakuya read my work as part of his own study, and promoted it, making it mandatory reading for the officers of his division."
You stare at him, genuinely impressed. That is certainly quite the resume.
"My
technique has always been flawless," Tousen says, and this time you taste a hint of bitterness in his tone. "My power wasn't up to par. I was well-suited to be a teacher for others more gifted than I, and I perfected a wide set of skills to compensate for my weakness, but weakness it always was. My potential was simply not the same as the noble families, Yamamoto's prized pupils, or that beast Kenpachi. Even with flawless skill, I was slower, weaker, less resilient. I could not simply rise above that deficiency. I
was worthy of my seat, make no mistake - but only through constant, relentless practice and study, and even then—I lost to Kenpachi. I lost badly."
What a strange thing to say, that one has enough power to warrant the title of Captain, and that one can still be considered 'weak.'
"Hah." He lets out a dry chuckle. "I suppose it is fair to be chastised for my pride by one of lesser rank. But you must understand—I was facing the might of all of Soul Society, those high-born, stronger than me, sitting on their thrones of injustice. I considered that Hollow power a taint on my soul, but at the time I was wholly consumed by my rage, my crusade. I was willing to sacrifice my own purity if it gave me the strength to tear down the Seireitei. When Sosuke offered it to me, I took it without a second thought."
You give him an odd look. 'At the time'? He lowers his head, thoughtful.
"I have been given much to think about lately. Largely thanks to you, Nemo Elcorbuzier. I… I no longer see that Hollow power as
corruption. I also regret taking it in the first place, now—I was more blinded by my crusade than I ever was by my own eyes. I regret it, for the choice it represented, but not for what it is. You've shown me that to bear Hollow power does not have to mean monstrosity. My feelings on the matter have grown complicated. I miss the… clarity," he says, reaching out to the air with his hand, as if seeking to grasp something that eludes him.
You say nothing, waiting for him to catch that thread of thought or to let it go. There is no sense in rushing the topic that brought you here. It could, after all, kill you. He stares-but-not-stares at the blue skies up ahead, his hand falling.
"They say that you are stirring up trouble," he finally says, not looking at you. But then, why would he? He is not staring at these sands beyond either.
You wonder who 'they' are, though.
"So you don't deny it?"
You shrug. What would be the point? It's the truth. You have always been a troublemaker, have you not?
"...I suppose it is amusing that I would talk of 'stirring up trouble' with the woman who murdered our head of police and was pardoned for it without ever showing remorse for her crime."
You tilt your head curiously. It's an odd thing to say. The last time you met Tousen, he was much more charitable to you, and to your past actions.
"The last time we met- ah." He brushes his hair, sighing. "Was that peacock-thing a test run? A first attempt at creating an aberrant god out of a mangled, mindless morass of soul?"
You never aimed to give birth to Beauty, not as such, not anymore than you aimed to give birth to the Core. You regret each of these stillborn godlings. Their existences unasked for, unwanted, so briefly cut down.
When you do it again, it will not be an ephemeral abomination. You have glimpsed the secret of creating life…
"And you think it a wonder."
You are not sure why there is sarcasm in his voice. He inclines his head to the side, and you see his faint smile.
"In Soul Society, ghosts beget ghosts. The greatest Shinigami, the noble families - they were never alive in the first place. They were born as spirits. Many of them have lived centuries without ever setting foot in the mortal world."
You stare at him.
You… You knew the theory of it, of course. Had heard the tales, made the connection when some Shinigami was referred to as coming from a family of Shinigami, but… You had never stopped to think about it, the scale of it, what it
meant.
"It is part of their injustice, you know? Part of their corruption. That they have never been
alive. They have never known what it is to be powerless. To live in flesh, to grow sick, to grow old, to bleed, to not understand the mysteries of the spirit world. To die, in the end. To wander the earth unfettered and terrified. To see the mask of a Hollow and its slavering jaws. As Arrancars, as half-Shinigami… you always had that power. To bring new life. To bear children. Spirits who never were alive. Do you think it is a good idea? When that very same procreation has created the generations which worked to build the ivory towers and pearly gates of Soul Society, uncaring of the world beyond its walls. A world of ghosts that never lived. Echoes of voices never spoken."
You swallow, your throat heavy. He still has his back turned to you - no, you won't accept this. You won't be treated as some young student hoping that her master deign turn his eyes on her.
You came here to teach
him a lesson, dammit.
You step forward, right next to him, on the edge of the roof, swaying slightly in the wind. Overlooking the windowed towers of a stretch of buildings unusually clustered together - almost all of them empty.
Should there not be souls in these walls? Should there not be children to fill these rooms? To grow and take homes of their own. To thrive and make of this empty, cardboard facade of a fortress… a city.
Even just a village, to start with.
Maybe he's right, and a child born to Arrancar parents would be out of touch with the living. But they would also be free of the pain you have experienced, the horror that shaped you. You think…
It is no longer a theoretical exercise. You want to give someone that chance. You want to create a life that will rise free of the grief and sorrow that all Arrancars have known, being once Hollows. A free soul.
Someday, when there is not war.
"And yet," Tousen says in a low, whispering tone, "you go about your day rousing spirits and breathing unrest into sleeping ears and risking your life, when you could fade in the shadows and wait for that war to be over, and the new world to come."
And what world would that be?
"You doubt Sosuke's vision, do you not?" he asks, finally turning his head so that you can see his eyes, even if they do not look at you.
Does he not?
"You ask me if my loyalty is shaken?"
You ask him if he is going to keep answering your questions with questions.
He frowns, and turns away once more.
"You think… all of you think Sosuke's only ambition is power. You're wrong about him, you know?" Tousen says, his voice tinged with sorrow and regret. "He does not desire power for its own sake. He wants it because the world
offends him, and he would not trust anyone else to change it. That is what brought me to him."
And he thinks you're the same. That Las Noches offends you, and so you seek the power to change it. If not in yourself, then in others - in gods of your own making, in Espadas turned to rebellion, in a lover who believes in your cause.
"You made a court where Sosuke made an army. You held a gala where he held mission briefings. You weave clothes where he broke masks. You follow in his wake, picking up the shattered swords and whispering to the listless soldiers, creating a world in his shadow. One he does not see, because he deigns not look down on it."
You don't see what's wrong with it. You are not trying to create another Soul Society. You're just planting seeds in the desert, and it takes all your effort, all your will, to keep gathering soil and water so that they can grow where was nothing.
"And now…" he says, his words trailing, "now there are flowers, blossoming on the grave of your dead god."
You don't know what you thought. What you had in mind. You were only going to talk, to speak of righteousness, of the justice Tousen holds so dear, the death of the innocents to craft a key to Heaven…
It seems empty now. Aizen must have spoken to him in much the same way. In the end are you not here to seek power, power in the shape of Tousen himself, another sword in your rebellion?
It comes to you all of a sudden, a foolish, unplanned impulse.
You have something to show him, if he will follow you.
He turns to you again, his expression stern - but there is a hint of curiosity you can glimpse.
"I sent Gin away, didn't I? There is little for me to do today."
You take a deep breath, and when you exhale you exhale shadows that pluck at the seams of the world. You exhale a thought with that breath, a memory, a sight. A pale, petrified face, a barren plain… a bargain refused.
The shadows split the air, dripping onto the roof, and the gate whispers the legend of Luna.
***
You had forgotten what the salt pan feels like; more barren even than the sands, without even the waves of dunes to give it variance, and yet far more beautiful, a stern portrait of desolation. A featureless white plain stretching out as far as the eye can see, a reflection of the moon above upon the earth. Pristine and eternal and lifeless. It makes you feel so small, so…
Ah. You smile at the memory of a glass of wine at the top of the tallest towers, of Cirucci's gaze and her wistful voice. The sublime, wasn't it?
But the plain has changed now. The cold, merciless emptiness has been filled with something not of the wild, not of beasts.
Buildings. They surround you. Small ones, certainly; less houses than huts, just as white as the rest of the plain - yes, you can see now, they are made of salt bricks. Their architecture is rough, functional, but not ugly; there are about a dozen of them arrayed in two loose circles around you, and you see also smaller constructs - one you think is an upraised fire-pit, with a large stone bowl sitting next to it, a cauldron of some sort.
They all radiate from your destination, this center, this unbeating heart: the last fragment of Luna's garden. Adorned columns, carved with faint grooves, rising to support arches that themselves no longer hold any roof. A half-circle, a dais upraised, and in its center, the kneeling statue of salt, with her eyeless, cratered mask.
"...what is this?" Tousen asks, faint wonder in his tone.
The village, you know not, though you could hazard a guess. But the statue… you step up onto the dais, offering your hand to Tousen. Even though he is much taller than you and needs no help, he takes it graciously. You walk up to the kneeling corpse, and raise your hand to hold the Reaper back.
"This mask," he whispers. "It emanates such power…"
It was a great prize. A treasure whose knowledge you gained in a moment of tribulation. It could save the one you loved - though you did not understand yet that you loved her. It could…
It could do so many things. And all it would cost was your soul.
You could have taken it, and become a monster. You could have bargained for it. Sacrificed your own power, your senses, a piece of you. You could have taken it but made it right, paid a price in blood.
You did not. In the end, you let it go.
"For what? How could that mask cost you your soul? You could just…" Tousen reaches slowly. "...take it."
And you would only have had to murder a handful of Hollows.
His hand freezes. He lowers it, and turns to you.
"Hollows."
It's not about them. You had already hurt them. Caused the death of many of their companions, however unwittingly. But…
Sometimes power is not worth the price, even when you can bargain for it. Whether it would have cost you your compassion, or your power, or your sight… A grand sacrifice for a grand reward…
Some ways of living are not worth exploring. Tragic heroes do not come home to their lover and sit around the fire playing Go.
All the wounds you ever suffered in the course of your quest healed, in time. All the dark and callous shadows held in your swords were sealed again, when the battle was done.
In the end you've always only been Nemo.
You feel them now. The houses were empty, but they come riding on the plain.
The Dancers are home.
You turn away from the mask, and gesture for Tousen to follow you. You walk past their fire-pit, to the entrance of that village, and there you wait for that graceful cohort.
The first to reach you is the six-armed serpent, slithering to a stop a dozen feet from you. She sees you and behind her fanged mask, her eyes widen; she lets out a sybillant call, an alarm or an outrage. A gangly gazelle-thing that had been running on all four unfolds her gangly shape, staring silently. You soon recognize the six you met before, furless lion and shapeless singer, but others are new, a crab with too-long legs, a bat with no leather to connect the bones of her wings, all of them strange and oddly graceful. They spread out in a half-circle before you, silent, wary.
"Two lost souls in our home," the serpent says. "A Shinigami and a half, besides half a Hollow."
"We did not feel your approach," the gazelle says warily. "This should not be. Who are you?"
You raise your hands, imploring that you mean no harm, even as Tousen's face sets into a stern, cold mask behind you.
"Is this…" the spider begins in a shivering voice, front legs trembling.
"Who?" says a strange creature with too-long arms and wings folded at its back, which you dimly remember from your last visit.
"Such beauty in her face," sings the thing without shape.
Then the serpent laughs.
"O, fool I am not to see. It is our thief unmasked! She returns, sans her guilt."
The gazelle looks at you, wide-eyed as recognition dawns on her.
"The one captured in our motions," the singer hums in awed surprise.
"Have you come again to stare temptation in its eye," the serpent says in a laughing voice, "to watch our mask and resist its pull, and convince yourself of your righteousness? Or have you come because you lost your own mask, and now need another to take its place?"
"Be quiet," the lion grunts. "She deserves more than your sarcasm. She met us on the road and did not kill us out of whim; that is more than can be said of most of our kind."
"I did not forget our lost brothers," the gazelle whispers, and a shadow passes over the group.
Your throat tightens. Of course you would be a vision of pain to them, a reminder of the fate that befell Butcher's Rock. And what can you do about it?
You came here thoughtlessly, to show Tousen the mask, hoping the Dancers would be out on their hunts. But now you face them, and...
You apologize for your trespass. You can leave, if they wish. It is what you meant to do regardless.
A hand settles on your shoulder, and you start. At last the Dancers' attention is brought to Tousen.
"You built houses," he asks, with distant curiosity. "That is unusual, for Hollows."
"I thought you lot dwelt in Barragan's old court," the lion says, dubious. "His pillars far dwarf our little abodes."
"Yes," Tousen says, "but they were built by armies, by magic, by slavery, by the strength of Adjuchas. You are but Hollows on your own. Your kind is content to sleep under the sky."
"And so were we," says one of the Dancer, "but the world ever changes, and we change in its wake."
"Did you see the rain?" the lion adds wistfully.
You are about to say you did - and then you understand what they are talking about. Not any rain of the living world, nor the clouds Cirucci conjured inside the vault of Las Noches; they are talking about that greatest of rainstorms which washed over the desert of nights before she came to save you. Not as violent as the hurricane of her ascended form, but encompassing nations in its breadth. Thwarted by the titanic walls of Las Noches, you only heard of it from those who wandered outside, your spider-friend among them…
No. No, you did not see that first and greatest of monsoons.
"It turned the Salar to a shining mirror of the sky," the gazelle says, "and when it was gone, the surface salt had softened. We took it and shaped it with our hands, and learned the way of house-making."
You smile. It is the way of the rain to bring new things to the world.
"What do you know of the rain," the serpent mocks, "O Guiltless One, who lives behind walls as tall as the world, beneath an unblinking sun?"
You are lover to the storm.
There is a moment of silence on all parts. Tousen turns to you, you think about to ask to depart, when the serpent leans forward, grinning.
"She is changed so; there is poetry in her soul, now! Oh, we should dance for her."
"Don't be silly," the gazelle scoffs. "That she showed mercy once does not make her our friend."
"But why does she need to be?" the shapeless thing laments. "It is only a dance, and it has been so long since we last performed for anyone but ourselves, or one about to join us."
"I say she's earned a dance, if nothing else," the lion says sternly.
The gazelle sighs, resigned.
"Very well. But I choose the dance."
"It is agreed," the rest of the Dancers say in a chorus.
You look around you in a bit of a confusion. You never asked for a dance - you never meant to impose; or, indeed, to linger at all, for there is rebellion brewing. And besides, you are with Tousen…
"Oh, that's why his eyes are so strange!" the spider says, merrily clapping its front legs like a child who has figured out a puzzle. "He is blind!"
You flush in embarrassment, but the Shinigami does not seem to care.
"I would love to see you dance," he says, his tone very stiff, and you cannot tell whether he is saying this out of genuine interest or a sense of polite obligation.
"But you can't
see us," the gazelle says flatly.
"Some of the… nuances of the spectacle are lost on me," he answers, inclining his head and speaking with a tinge of regret, "unless I am on the same plane as the dancers - then the vibrations in the ground map their patterns in my mind in such a beautiful way… This is why I favor ballrooms and even the inns of the Rukongai, more than the distant stages of Soul Society's ballets. Here, on this empty plain? I will see more than most with eyes."
For a moment, the gazelle is silent. Then she looks at her brethrens, catching small nods and approving looks, and turns back to you; when she speaks again it is with dark amusement. She stretches out one thin arm towards their small settlement.
"Please. Take seats."
You repress the vague distress this whole situation is putting you through to bow gratefully, then turn around Tousen at your heels. At the outside of the small village is a bench, made of salt like all the rest, curved in shape as if facing a round stage - but its stage is the whole of the Salar's emptiness.
"You Shinigami and a half," the Gazelle says with a smirk, "you half a Hollow. Please sit back and witness our grand performance: the Black King and the White Thief."
...oh.
Before you can have second thoughts, the Dancers bow at once, first to you, then to each other, and set into motion.
It takes your breath away. They are like ice-skaters; though their feet do touch the ground, they never take a step, but simply glide on the surface of the salt pan, moving in a single, continuous motion, all graceful curves, no harsh angles or broken lines, united by the blessing of the mask. It is not like the Coro Nocturno, who work together but are each one a different voice, a different instrument, doing their best to excel in their own practice so as to bring up the whole. Instead they move as one body, one mind, a choreography that subsumes the self.
It is not like the arts Cirucci taught you. It is not disciplined, constrained, rehearsed. It is wild, instinctive, hungry. Though the Dancers move with grace it is the grace of a predator, eyes shining; sometimes their talons stretch to cut the salt and spray it behind them in beautiful white curtains as they glide, sometimes they leap upon each other and seem about to devour one another, only for the pounce and the struggle to become a pirouette, a lift, a throw; sometimes they howl and roar and let out guttural laughs.
They tell a story without words. The great, shapeless thing with the sing-song voice is a black king, slowest but most momentous of all the dancers, looming over the stage, grand and terrible. The gazelle is a trickster, hunching over to make herself smaller, moving with flickering, interrupted arcs, crossing the sprays of salt to clad herself in white. They are the centerpiece, the other supporting actors: the spider a faithful, naive servant, the bird a flying omen of doom swooping down closer and closer as the piece builds up to a finish. The serpent is a chorus, the only one to sing, humming a wordless song that sets the mood and guides the others' timing. The Black King is great in his might, and this might blinds him; though he rules over all the dancers he sees not the White Thief at his back, growing closer and closer, her motions beginning as brushstrokes and becoming knife thrusts as she approaches.
It is a tragedy, but it is not an indictment. The trickster, the thief, is not portrayed as a mere monster, but as a small thing of cunning, acting without understanding rather than out of malice. Her own dance is beautiful in her own way, a struggle against the embodiment of a cold world where power alone matters, until...
The shapeless thing and the gazelle dance in battle and fury and each sweep of the smaller one brings the giant a little closer to the ground, until it must kneel, boneless arms extending for the gazelle to leap into, and there he tosses her into the sky where she whirls and whirls triumphantly, shedding the white salt in a rain as beneath her the king falls and grows steel. And when she touches the ground, all the Dancers bow to her.
You swallow nervously, clutching the beads of your necklace. It was…
The serpent straightens up, tail swaying, opening all her arms in a gesture of invite. She grins at you.
"Did you like it, O Guiltless One?"
But before you can say anything it is Tousen who speaks up, his voice distant and thoughtful.
"Is this what we are to you?" he asks, and as you turn to him you are surprised to understand that his 'we' does not include
you.
"You are many things to us," the serpent says with mirth, "and that dance is many stories itself. Read it as you will."
"I have seen him portrayed in many ways," Tousen says softly, "as a conqueror, a traitor, a god, a magician. But never as a
thief."
You look at him, for a moment refusing to understand, and then that barrier cracks and you see.
The Black King who ruled over Butcher's Rock, feasting with his court of Hollows, bloody-handed, bloody-mouthed, ever-hungry but nurturing his people, building an order on the death of outsiders to preserve his own. The White Thief who came one day for nothing more than the crown he had, unconcerned by the consequences, by what would come if she took away that symbol. You know this story. You
wrote that story. But…
The Black King who ruled over all of Hueco Mundo, anointing great Hollows as his nobles, forming an army with which to hunt the stray and feed his own court, the one who brought a single, everlasting rule to the whole of the desert. And the White Thief, white for his Captain's coat, who came one day for nothing more than his title, his crown, wishing to build his own order and uncaring of any consequences but the certainty of his rule.
Is this what you were to the Dancers? Another Aizen? Is that what you are to
Tousen?
And is it true? Even though you have no hope of raising a hand against the man himself, is this rebellion not in a sense your work? Your grand performance? You…
"Thank you for this. I regret to have nothing to offer you as recompense," Tousen says.
"Dancing is what we do," the gazelle says with a shrug. "It is no great cost to us."
Slowly, the Shinigami nods.
"We offer you hospitality," the furless lion says, taking place next to the other two, drawing the serpent's offended look. "Our food, our sky."
"Is this really up to you to offer?" the gazelle asks sourly, but he only scoffs.
"Come now. Your thief of crowns has come, and you told her a story of pain and hurt at her own hand. All well and deserved. But it was not so long ago that you were performing the Pale Moth's Mercy, and lauding that miracle, that one of the mighty would walk away from the object of their desire to spare the weak."
The gazelle shuffles her feet, clearly embarrassed, and you do your best to keep an expressionless face. She had you thinking they hated you still; to what end?
"I apologize," Tousen says; "I do not eat Hollow meat."
"Hah," the serpent chuckles, "how hungry you must go, in Hueco Mundo."
"We have our own ways," he says simply.
"We will use the little ones, then," the lion says simply, "the air-drinkers, unfulfilling as they can be. What about you?" he adds, turning his fierce bestial mask to you. You nod slowly. You would enjoy a meal, but cannot tarry long here. There is much to do.
"Only a meal," he says with a nod, and all at once the Dancers break up and walk past your wide bench, to their homes, their supplies, to the cauldron in its salt-pit, Fragrant smells soon fill the air, honey-nectar, strong salted meat, crushed quartz-tree bark used as seasoning… You close your eyes and tilt your head, enjoying the scent.
"You've shown me the art of Arrancars," Tousen says, drawing you out of your reverie. You blink and look at him; you are both still on the bench, alone, facing nothing but the flat empty. "Spoke of how freedom from the hunger made you human. But this… They are Hollows." He pauses, considering his words. "Yet they dance."
You nod slowly, thoughtful.
It's the mask. It is its gift.
"What, its power?" Tousen asks, frowning. "Even with it, they are still very weak."
Not the power. The fact that it is there, that they depend on it.
Hollows left to their own device are ever in pain, driven to hurt and kill one another. They need… something. An icon. An idol. A
reason. All the Dancers depend upon the mask; its actual benefits, you think, are largely secondary. What matters is that because they all need it, all revere it, all partake of its strength, they are brought together and bound as a community.
If you had taken the mask from them, they would have died as a community long before they died to predators.
That is what Hollows are. Broken. But not, necessarily, destroyed. They can find solace in something external to them. Something that completes,
fulfills their deprived souls. And so they kneel to Barragan. And so they flock to Aizen. And so they attend your gala.
Tousen's blind eyes stare at an empty spot of salt, deep with thoughts, his back hunched as if under a great burden.
"We are," he says slowly, "all of us, human. And some of us make evil choices out of ambition, greed, selfishness. And others among us do evil actions, driven by pain, anguish, loss, trauma. Reshaped by their torment into something evil. But not of their own will. We forget this easily, we Reapers, do we not? That this is the reason Hollows do not go to Hell, but are cleansed and welcomed into Soul Society; because they are not responsible for their actions. We try not to break their mask when we fight them, because it reminds us that there is a man under there. We hate them for what they've done, but they had no choice in what they became. Yet even so, some of them… struggle. And some of them find something outside themselves which grants them a piece of humanity, even with their masks unbroken. You and your friend. These dancers. And yet..."
His lip twists angrily, his brow furrowing, his voice turning dark and heavy.
"And yet you would bite the hand that anointed you," he says. "Sosuke would take the throne of Heaven and stand as god. He could be that icon, he could be the fulfillment of Hollows, just as he has welcomed so many of you and freed them from their condition. Would it not be a better end that Barragan and his cruel banquets? Barragan who, on the day we came to him, told us he was thinking of setting half of his army against the other for them to slaughter each other, all because he was
bored?"
You swallow nervously, feeling like every word, every gesture might trip a wire and send you plunging into the dark again.
You do not long for Barragan's rule. What he took from you…
A bitter pang burns in your chest and you grit your teeth, visions flashing of Cirucci kneeling before the Old King's throne, begging for his help, offering him all the rewards he might desire to help cast down Aizen…
What are you
doing?
Barragan killed Mantis, took away your only friend, sent you spiraling into agony and grief. He took your heart. He took your wings. He took two of your arms. He led you to Aizen's throne, to this service, and he…
He never knew. It was all so far beneath his notice.
And now you need him and
she is abasing herself and it was
your idea, this whole doomed endeavor…
"Nemo?"
You start, blink, look down. See your white knuckles and the veins straining under your skin as you clutch the bench. You force yourself to relax.
Flakes of rock salt fall down, the imprint of your fingers carved in the bench. You force yourself to take deep breaths.
No. No, you do not wish for Barragan's rule. But surely Tousen must see Aizen's own cruelty, his capricious nature, his lack of empathy.
"You see an evil god," Tousen says, "how easily you forget the gifts he granted you."
He gave you
swords.
"And humanity."
And left you to figure out what that meant on your own.
"Would you rather he had ordered you to make art for him before you understood its value?"
You would rather…
He knew what he was doing. It's what he
does, is it not? He has not only the power, but the
insight to see what is wrong with people, what is broken…
And instead of fixing them, he turns them into weapons. He saw the wrath consuming Tousen, and instead of helping him, forged that wrath into a Hollow taint, to give him the power to lash out at the world. Barragan's kingdom was a terrible thing, and you never wish to see its like again; but when Aizen conquered it he only saw in it an armory. A stockpile of disaffected Hollows to make into blade-bearing soldiers and nothing else.
That's all you ever were to him. Hollows to reforge into replacement shinigami who wouldn't need training or teaching or any
culture to be ready to die in his name.
Aizen cared not one whit about Hueco Mundo as a whole, and what little structure Barragan had imposed collapsed. Aizen did not kill the Old King; but he killed the
idea, and so the Butcher King and his cannibal court rose in the sand to try and uphold the idea of a Hollow civilization, and…
You were sent to destroy them. And destroy them you did. These few dancers are all that remain.
Their dance was also about you.
You brought that pain to them. But then your eyes were opened. And when you had the chance to take that mask, you walked away.
"You cannot change the world by
walking away, Nemo," Tousen says, an angry twist to his lips, the ebb of his reiatsu raising the hair on your back, making your eyes wide. "Someone must bear the crown; someone must sit on the throne. The world will remain the same as long as someone does not stand up to its evil, and you believe it is worth standing up to Sosuke, but what
then? What will become of that throne? Will Barragan sit on it and bring about an age of death and decay? Who else? Will your mistress take the crown? Does she have the power, the will, to hold it, to do right with it?"
You don't…
"How ironic," he says with a mirthless smile, "you have shown
me how blind my wrath and how misguided my crusade, only for you to decide that you should topple the throne of God because he is unrighteous, with no thought beyond this."
It's not true. You look at him as firm as you can, though your eyes are near-watering. He may easily find the words to hurt you, to poke at the cracks in your vision, widen them into fractures, but it doesn't make him
right. It doesn't mean you should
give up. Maybe Cirucci does have the strength and virtue to hold the throne. Maybe the Espada can rule together, their unity smoothing each one's vices, like the Ten Masked Kings of old. Maybe a pact can be made with the Shinigami. Maybe Tousen himself can lead the way to a new era, teaching Arrancars justice and good rulership!
Passion ignites you now, a furnace reborn again, your teeth gritted as you gesture wildly, harshly, too upset for spoken words.
What does it
matter?
Aizen aims to kill a hundred thousand innocents, murder everyone Tousen once knew, become God and reshape all of creation to his will. What new generation of monsters will he create to serve him?
You alone made the choice not to take the Mask of Luna. But Tousen wasn't alone in choosing his own mask, was he? It is not something he would ever have
considered on his own, so distant from his philosophy was the notion of taking up Hollow power. But there was a smiling lord, whispering in his ear.
Tousen's wrath against Soul Society warped his whole worldview, made him only a vessel of a single destructive goal. It made him a Hollow in the mind. And when Aizen, his friend, his ally, saw this, saw the faultlines in Tousen's soul, he did not try to fix him.
Aizen made him a Hollow in the flesh.
And Tousen welcomed hunger and corruption in his heart for the sake of a crusade he now regrets.
This is the one he would see become God.
You exhale deeply, letting the anger, the outrage that was beginning to burn you flow out with your breath. It leaves a hole, an emptiness of feeling, and its contours are sorrowful. You look up to Tousen, worried, almost regretful of what you just said. He digests your words for a long, silent moment. You give him all the time he needs.
"I miss," he whispers, "the clarity."
You know. He told you before. And you are truly sorry. You, too, miss the simplicity of only caring about survival, of being so weak you did not matter to anything bigger than the scope of your own life.
But clarity has been denied you. Now you weave a tangled thread in the dark, and must hope that the tapestry will be beautiful in the end.
"The food is ready," calls a singing voice. You sigh and stand up; Tousen follows after a little while, walking past two of the little brick huts, to a place just in front of the broken garden. There, under the ornate columns, under the eyeless gaze of Luna, the Dancers sit in a circle, and you both become part of that circle; and you are served a stew in simple stone bowls, with thick spoon made out of the bark of petrified trees. You take one deep breath through your nose, still unused and delighted at the way the smoke and flavor run through your sinuses, to your palate, your lungs, filling you with a taste before taste.
Mouth salivating, you dig your rough spoon into the meal. The food is good, if very simple; the stew relies largely on the meat's quality, and autotrophs are stringy and require softening for longer than they boiled today. The salt is plentiful and the crushed bark adds an edge of flavor to it, and the sweetness of honey-nectar completes a hearty, if blunt dish. You only wish for onions, perhaps tomatoes, to add more nuance to the flavor… Paprika, perhaps, for a little spice. But you compliment the cook, who blushes at praise from a powerful stranger; and Tousen does the same after you, and many of the Dancers smile a little at this.
You eat, but you do not only eat. You share: you talk with the Dancers, of simple things that can bring no one harm. Of stories old and new. Of a watcher lost in a dream, of a masked hunter trapped in a forest. Of a spider crossing the desert, connecting those who are lost in the emptiness, helping them share what gifts each of them have, and how a wish might bring it to them. They tell you of a great hunt, of a kindness they repaid by welcoming among them a wounded creature whom they could easily have eaten; and that ragged, horse-like one smiles because it is his story.
And in the end you are done, and they no longer look at you in resentment, nor at Tousen with fear. You thank them for the meal, and they tell you that you are welcome, and you do not know what else to say. You feel like you should be giving back. That you should still be making amends somehow. But your hands are empty, and they expect nothing, and so in the end you accept that the meal is just a meal, given without expectation.
You take a last look at the Salar de Luna, the Dancers united in satiety and camaraderie, the houses they built, their statue which no longer looks so ominous and lonely but now like a monument in a public park, a thing of community and memory; and beyond it the featureless white realm…
Will it be the last thing you see? Will the Reaper cut you down in the no-place of the Garganta, for your thoughts of rebellion?
You sigh, and enter the void with Tousen is at your side.
The light closes behind you and you are two souls, astray in the whispering nothing, held aloft above oblivion by only the thinnest of barriers, a bright and gold platform which you must shape with your will. And there in that void, Tousen stops you, his hand firm on your shoulder. You swallow nervously, turning to face him.
The wind howls even in this place of no-sky. Its broken voices who treat you as their sisters…
You look into his empty eyes and wonder. Is this what the world is to Kaname Tousen? An infinite sea of darkness, empty of all sounds, but filled with the rush of a thousand voices, all heard so perfectly they become a cacophony through which he must focus to capture a single voice. The only light that shimmering barrier under his feet, the faintest tremors he senses through the ground. The shape of the wind, of the dissolved spiritual energies brushing the skin… A world of echoes, where nothing is seen by its own shape, but by the wake it leaves in the world.
What a lonely world that must be.
"I cannot defeat Sosuke", he says evenly. "Even with the mask."
The words make your heart skip a beat.
Did you hear this right? Is he…
Your hand clasps on the one he put on your shoulder, clutching it in gratitude. If he does join you, if…
"You are thankful to hear me say it will all be futile?" he chides you, faint amusement mixed in a tone of regret.
He is not alone. There are other Espada - even Harribel, one of the Vasto Lorde, perhaps Barragan…
"That would be worse than useless," Tousen says sternly, taking his hand off you.
You… thought that maybe, hoped that his blindness and his peerless senses, might allow him to see through the Lord's illusions and help...
"You're clever," Tousen says, creasing his brow, "considering how little knowledge you have. You are right and wrong. I can 'see' through his illusions, but you seem to think that is because they are visual tricks a blind man could ignore. You are wrong. Sosuke calls his power 'Absolute Hypnosis' - although that may be another lie; it cannot selectively manipulate the mind, only the appearance of the world... Close enough to the truth, anyway. The visions he creates affect all senses. Sight, hearing, touch… Even the mind's eye."
You stare at him, bewildered. Such a power should not be possible; it would mean to rewrite one's entire perception of the world, to create an universe that feels in all ways as real as the truth… There is no escape from such a prison.
"You are right," Tousen says darkly. "I am immune to it because my blindness prevents me from seeing the
ritual of its activation, the long form of his sword's release. If I were ever to be granted sight and witness it, from there on my senses could be fooled utterly, even if I became blind again. Once one has seen Kyouka Suigetsu, one is forever under its thrall."
Your throat tightens in worry. That means…
"Even if I were to coordinate others as powerful as I am, it would be of no use. The Espada are under his sword's influence; even as I would try to direct their attacks to Sosuke, he would make me look like him, and make himself look like me, giving the wrong instruction. We would all slaughter each other."
So he can only fight alone. And he is not strong enough to do so.
"Indeed."
You shudder, though not with fear. You clench your fists, swallowing the bile in your throat, biting your tongue. It is anger that makes your shoulders shake; a weight of molten lead in your stomach, making the food you ate taste of ash, mingled now with blood, as you bit too hard. Heat spreads through your chest, you can hear your heart beat inside your skull, louder and louder like the drums of war. To feel such elation learning Tousen would fight on your side, only for it to be quashed like this…
Of course it's hopeless. What did you even think? But even that distraught realization does not make you despair, it only makes you
outraged at the unfairness of it all. Your lips curl into a snarl…
And when you look at him again, expecting regret, fear, an apologetic expression, he is instead beaming. You blink, disarmed, your anger quieted for a moment at the rarity of this expression, the earnestness of it.
"Does it matter?" he says. "If the cause is righteous. If the evil is great enough. If we make our stand to save the world. Does it matter that we fall."
You straighten your back, finding steel in your spine, and stare him in the eyes.
Yes, it does. Because if all of you die righteously, heroically, gloriously - then the dream of Las Noches dies with you. Where could have at last, after millenia of emptiness and failed civilizations, flourished a civilization of Arrancars, seeds growing out of the desert, there would only be…
Ashes.
Tousen's smile does not fade, exactly. It transmutes itself into an expression of stern resolve, of iron certainty. He nods once.
"Then we must win."
You feel a pang of frustration. He's the one who just quashed your hopes.
"No," he says slowly. "I think I can see… a plan. An idea. It is not much; it may well fail. But there is one aspect to it, one thing which perhaps will please the fates, and convince them to work in our favor."
You stare back, unsure what he means. What element?
And again, Tousen smiles.
"Irony."
***
Tousen leaves ahead of you so as to avoid drawing attention; you snip the thread of light through which he left and wander through the dark for a little longer, until you sew yourself another door.
Red stone walls welcome you, the sun in its full brightness searing the floor under your feet. You look around you at the now-so-familiar walls rising upwards to the sky, the platforms and doors without stairs, a tower made for no human presence yet so easy for you to call home. You breathe in the lingering smell of tea, the sounds of shuffling Calaveras, the chalky taste of recently-swept dust. Luppi and Cirucci aren't home, Ren is ever keeping to himself… how long do you have before the invaders reach your doors and all hell must broke loose? One day? Two?
Your heart is beating so fast, you can't help but let a smile tweak the corners of your mouth, alone in there. You've left the whispering void behind and now that you stand there, alone, still, in the warmth and the light, your head is light as a feather, dizzy with the realisation that you did it.
You convinced Tousen to join you.
And what now? What in the time before Cirucci and Luppi came back, the time until the call comes and the world must be turned upside down?
What little time you have.
You close your eyes, sighing.
You've done what you can. Now is the time for others to do their part. And in the meantime, you will help, but in your own way. By preparing the way forward.
You have your art. You have many unfinished works that could be completed in these last moments. You have all of Alphonse's treasure trove, yours to use freely. And you have mastery.
You walk into your workshop.
And while you are working…
…you are someone else.
You are:
[ ] Arisawa Tatsuki, indomitable kung fu expert, doomed to use a superpower lottery to protect all the loveable idiots around you from getting themselves killed.
[ ] Kuchiki Rukia, level-headed and professional Shinigami officer, absolutely not distracted by personal grudges and the adorable punch-child accompanying you.
[ ] Sarugaki Hiyori, the Short and Terrible, justifiably (and permanently) angered at a world which conspired to vex you, and already tuning out all these jokers.
