Post by Kionchi on Jul 25, 2015 13:19:03 GMT -5
Even the discomfort of an unfamiliar ceiling would be some comfort for the blinded shinigami. The only solace left was that the mind numbing pain of the king’s battering had been reduced to a steady dull ache. At least he could feel something. Not that his beatings weren’t an efficient form of torture. Not that there wasn’t an innate fear he tapped into bringing your body over that edge and dumping it into that deep and dark chasm where even pain was too much of a luxury.
The pain that told him he was still alive.
Still able to grip his now long since devoured sword.
Still able to stand and stare and fight his demons like a man.
No.
He had abandoned his humanity when he became a God of Death. And yet here he lie on some strange bed or table in yet another unfamiliar smelling room in some niche or lab somewhere in Las Noches. His zanpaktou sealed and out of reach. His allies back in the Gotei subject to the mad King’s torment. And, if he were to believe Erasmus’ lies, the source of his pain the same master to whom he so proudly bent his broken knee.
There he lie with his long silken hair draped haphazardly over whatever surface the blind man lie. His once white kimono stained red with his own blood. His face bashed in and chest wounds just barely healed. Teeth missing and arms still practically broken, he had no idea why he didn't just hold his breath and try to die...try to finish the job the King had started. After all would he really miss those friends of his in whatever came after this life? Would karma really pin him such a coward?
Well. Yeah.
He was a disgrace. A coward. A man used to running who had finally stumbled. And whose sins had trampled him underfoot. And try as he might to remember that day those eighteen years ago...there was only the white chill of some snowy evening in some mountain in Gifu where he was so readily assigned. Some promise long broken and some vow long forgotten. Some mission; Was it a failure? I guess given it lead to this whatever happened could constitute a failure in his book. Heh. He was so out of it he had even started to place his own needs above that of whatever nameless bastard he had called his master that night so long ago.
Was it night?
"Fuck it."
WC: 428; GP: 8; TGP: 8
