Bleach fanfic - Spread Your Wings
Title: Spread Your Wings
Author: Akuni
Universe: Bleach
Genre: Drama, Character study
Rating: R (mature themes & violence)
Characters: Ulquiorra-centric
Pairings: none
Spoilers: Spoilers for events up to and including manga chapter 318.
Word Count: 6887
Summary: An exploration of Ulquiorra’s origins and how he got to where he is right now.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, I'm just borrowing it for a while.
Distribution: This is just for Looky, so no. :) Crossposted eventually to kurosaki_clinic, arrancar_fans, and ulquiorra_fc.
Dedication: This is for r0ck3tsci3ntist, in exchange for this breathtaking piece of artwork.
A/N: Normally I’m a pretty punctual person. Sometimes, though, the great timesuck known as RL takes over and blocks me from spending quality time with my muse. This fic is part of an exchange I did with r0ck3tsci3ntist in the spring. *headdesk* I commmissioned her to do a Byakuya/Ulquiorra piece based on the fic I’d written for xshelaghx’s birthday, and in exchange I agreed to write an atmospheric Ulquiorra piece.
To make a long story short, it took me a lot longer than I expected, but it’s finally done now. I hope you all enjoy following along on Ulquiorra’s journey.
I owe piles and piles of thank yous to xshelaghx and moshesque, without whom this would still be a point-form outline. You guys kept me on the right path and delivered the necessary boots to the butt and ego boosts to keep me from flailing uselessly instead of writing.
Spread Your Wings
It fights. It wins.
It eats.
It grows.
*
It faces another ravenous creature. Hunger radiates from them both. Wriggling its hind end into the ground, it prepares to fight.
The attack comes immediately. The creature rushes it. Sand flies as it springs away. The creature misses and skids, ploughing face first into the ground. Heavy and strong, the creature is not as fast.
It is spinning around even before it lands. Shoving hard against the loose ground, it throws itself back toward the creature. The creature scrambles, but cannot recover in time.
It smashes into the creature, pinning the creature down. One well-placed snap of its teeth and the creature goes limp, paralyzed by a broken neck. It lowers its head with a triumphant snarl, and begins to feast. Its jaws tear too-large gobbets of flesh, but it cannot linger over its meal. Danger is always near, the next opponent always waiting just out of sight.
*
Movement at the corner of its eye makes it wary. It burrows into the sand, then remains motionless. A muted swish accompanies the appearance of several Hollows, much larger than it. It stays hidden and watches the pack wander by.
The pack is rambunctious, jostling and shoving. Their play is rough and uneasy, something heavy impending. One tumbles beneath the feet of another, whining as taloned feet crush down. The others descend immediately with excited, high-pitched yips. The pack savages the fallen member.
At first they cooperate, but before the twitching corpse is completely consumed they scatter. Only one remains perched above the carcass, glowing and roaring. That one stands facing the others, challenging.
The pack creeps closer, bellies low to the ground.
The pack has a leader.
Still buried in the sand, it huddles in its wallow, safe for the moment as it observes.
*
It must feed more often now. The hunger returns more quickly than before, thus it battles more frequently for food. It has learned to conceal itself well, and strike its targets with precision. Even a small pack of lower-level Hollows is no longer a significant threat.
Now it lies in wait for its next meal - two inattentive creatures still crawling about on their bellies - but it is inexplicably agitated. Something inside it itches, just below the surface where it cannot scratch. It doesn’t understand; all it knows is the hunt, and the kill, and the feast.
Gritting its teeth, it ignores the distraction and focuses on its targets. They are only a little smaller, with long, whippy tails that look as if they could pluck the eyes from an unwary opponent’s head. Foolishly, they don’t take the time to scout the area before they stop and begin nosing the sand, digging burrows. It waits patiently, hidden in plain sight, until they hunker down to rest.
As soon as they relax, it strikes. Silent and deadly, it incapacitates the first before either of them have time to realize they’re under attack, flipping one over and tearing open the vulnerable underbelly with sharp, pointed teeth. The creature’s keening wail may attract attention, it knows, but it does not intend this encounter to take that long.
The other thrashes frantically, struggling to escape the sandy prison, but is too slow. It lunges for the kill. Powerful hind legs pin the creature down; it flexes its knees and bounces, snapping the spine. Opening its mouth as wide as it will go, it stuffs the now-limp creature in head first and swallows the meal whole.
Its hunger is unappeased. If anything, it has grown.
Fortunately, there’s still more to eat.
The other still squirms weakly, attempting to crawl away, leaving a trail of innards. Soft whimpers float over the sands as it snatches the creature by the leg. It raises its meal to its mouth, and instinct tells it to take this one more slowly.
It savours the meal, relishing the crunch and snap of bone, the chewy flesh and slippery blood, and the sweet tang of the creature’s helpless fear.
As it feeds, the itch grows stronger, becoming a sharp tingle, and then a fierce burning, its energy ever increasing until it feels it may burn up and fly apart. The surge is so intense, it is left writhing on the ground, helpless to fight the involuntary convulsions. Even worse, it knows that this will certainly attract new enemies, and that if it does not regain control in time, it will become food for something else.
When it thinks it cannot bear any more, its body convulses and everything abruptly changes. The wracking spasm stop, the pain replaced by streams of power, animal fear fading as keen intellect blooms.
He is aware now, in a way he never was before.
Horns sprout on his helmet, and his skin grows tough and thick. Something in his back snaps with an audible crack that echoes dangerously in the twilight desert, and he finds he must stagger upright. Balancing precariously at first on two legs, he quickly learns to let his instincts guide the movement of his tail, and his stance stabilizes.
When he speaks, his voice is deeper and smoother than it had been before.
“Ulquiorra.”
*
He roams the sands freely, confident and canny. The only threats now are others like him. Lesser beings once challenged him, but the swiftness and ease with which he has dispatched and devoured his assailants secured his reputation and ensure he is left undisturbed. Except by those like him, those who use the irresistible urges to claw their way toward greater power and might.
Sometimes they try to talk. They’ve heard of him, they know his reputation, and they offer to follow him. Or, ridiculously, they offer to lead him.
The opponent he faces now is different.
“We would be an unstoppable team, Ulquiorra.”
Underlying the high-pitched wheeze is a note that he’s never heard before, and cannot place. The offer of partnership is the first, and is novel enough that he withholds his initial plan to attack and instead deigns to discourse with the creature that calls itself Bonespur.
“To what end?”
His opponent’s excitement is evident. “To grow stronger. To fight, to feed, to win. Together we can be stronger than anything. We could even take Gillian.”
That’s a compelling thought. “True.” Ulquiorra takes a step forward, extending his clawed hand, and his opponent strides toward him eagerly. As their forearms connect, Ulquiorra moves without hesitation. Shifting his weight to the left, he turns his hip and yanks his opponent off balance.
His opponent is good. Better than he expects.
Recovering swiftly, his opponent - Bonespur, Ulquiorra now acknowledges - growls and gouges bone-deep furrows in Ulquiorra’s forearm with thick talons as he sweeps a double-jointed leg toward Ulquiorra’s knee, even while stumbling and falling to one knee. The spurs on the joints that no doubt inspired Bonespur’s chosen name hook painfully into Ulquiorra’s leg. Instantly, his leg goes numb, the nerves deadened by whatever poisons the spurs have delivered.
Grinning wickedly, Bonespur pulls.
Ulquiorra falls.
Bonespur shrieks triumphantly and springs toward him.
Employing all his speed and strength, Ulquiorra surges up to his knees and thrusts both hands into Bonespur’s throat. Blood spurts as he pulls hands stained red to the wrists from the jagged wound. Steam rises from his sticky hands, a sharp tang filling his nostrils as he licks at one thick drop rolling sluggishly down his forearm.
His opponent was very good. Just not good enough.
“But I am already stronger than you,” Ulquiorra says as Bonespur falls limply, life essence spilling from the ruined throat and soaking darkly into the fine-grained sand.
Momentarily, Ulquiorra wonders what it would be like to work with a partner. To have someone to fight with, to guard - and there it ends. There is no trust, there cannot ever be trust. His own actions here have proven that beyond a doubt.
Their existence is kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten.
Ulquiorra eats.
*
The hunger burns. He can feel something changing inside, but the hunger drives out all thought. His skin itches, feeling as if it is stretched too tightly over his bones, to the point of actual pain. The dull ache in his bones doesn’t slow him down, it only drives him toward his next fight, his next meal, with increased determination.
He hasn’t been challenged in a long time. It’s been harder to keep up with the need, and he’s constantly on the move now, resting in short bursts for as long as he can stand it until the craving is too much to ignore. It has become necessary to range into much more dangerous territory to find meals satisfying enough to keep him going long enough to find the next.
Ulquiorra eyes the dark forest with growing trepidation. Even he is respectful of the power of the creatures that dwell within. He’s only ever skirted the edges before, not yet ready to take the terrible risk of being one tiny mistake away from becoming a light snack for a menos. But now, with the hunger warping his very being, he knows he must move forward.
The darkness is more imposing than the deepest burrow or the blackest cave. Only the barest slivers of moonlight penetrate the thick canopy formed by the tops of the crystalline trees towering overhead. He stalks through the forest on silent feet, feeling his way through the heavy energy pervading the atmosphere.
The air is alive and potent, uncomfortably so; the energy clings, sliding softly over his armoured skin, creeping up his nose, and crawling into his mouth. It smells like power, and tastes like death.
The darkness shifts.
Ulquiorra freezes.
Heart pounding, he focuses on staying still and silent. After a long minute, his eyes finally track the movement in the distance. It’s hard to focus on the rippling blackness, but that fact itself helps him identify the source.
He knows he’s been spotted, and probably has been watched since not long after he entered the forest. Wiping sweaty, trembling hands on his thighs, he wills himself to calm as he chooses an advantageous position and strides to take his place atop a low rise. This is what he wanted, what he’s come seeking. Now that he’s found it, he needs to be in control.
It’s pure luck that it’s a menos grande slinking through the trees, and even more luck that it’s alone. As it draws nearer Ulquiorra can feel its hunger, even greater than his own, pulsing off it in a steady beat that is actually audible in the low hum of its energy.
The gillian moves slowly but deliberately, gliding through the trees in a direct line toward him. The instinct to flee from such a powerful opponent wars with the hunger urging him forward, the need for more, more food, more power, more more more rippling under his stinging skin. Ulquiorra struggles momentarily, but intellect overrides the rest, and he holds his chosen ground as the gillian draws nearer and finally halts before him.
Its oscillating cry pierces his ears and scrapes down his spine, setting his tail twitching involuntarily. Still Ulquiorra waits, ignoring the way the scream vibrates his bones, until he sees the bright red energy forming at its mouth. The massive head appears to tip back as the masked maw opens wider, and in the instant before the cero is released, Ulquiorra moves. He bursts into a sprint, pelting around the gillian’s left side and skidding behind it.
Springing up as high as he can, he flings himself onto its back, scrabbling to dig his talons into the barely penetrable skin after he begins sliding down the surprisingly slick surface. The gillian roars again as its cero smashes into the ground where Ulquiorra once stood, showering it in the sand and rock that explodes out of the newly formed crater.
Ulquiorra climbs quickly as the gillian turns in place, his tail lashing behind him for balance through his wild ascent. The ring of spikes around the gillian’s neck seem to lean toward him as he nears; he doesn’t need to get any closer to them to know their touch would be deadly. Thrusting his tail up and out, Ulquiorra throws himself into a spin, hurtling over the spikes, catching the very edge of its mask.
The gillian finally stops its ponderous turning, its eyes crossing as it peers down at him. Appreciative of its slow, stupid nature, Ulquiorra hangs there for an instant, realizing once he’s up so close that there’s no way he can defeat a gillian from the head. Its neck is too thick to snap, if he could even find the spine, and its mask is thicker than his own body. He jabs his tail into its eye, but it doesn’t penetrate deeply enough to maim, instead only provoking another nerve-scraping screech.
A new plan is needed, and quickly before the fight draws others. One gillian is enough of a challenge, and a second opponent of any level would undoubtedly mean his defeat. Ulquiorra drops, again being careful to avoid the lethal spikes. Once he’s cleared the ring, he stabs his claws into the thick hide again, tearing long furrows as he continues his descent. Swinging his head around, he pierces with his left horn, adding another wound with the point and sharp edge, this one a much deeper slice.
The gillian screams again and attempts another cero, but it cannot fire straight down and only succeeds in blowing another chunk out of the forest floor.
When Ulquiorra reaches the hole in the gillian’s mid-section, he gathers his energy and digs in harder to slow his fall. Whipping his tail around, he stabs it straight into the vast emptiness and releases the energy in a burst. Green sparks explode from the hole, and long streaks of green energy sizzle up and down the gillian’s entire body like lightning.
A roar of triumph forces its way out of Ulquiorra’s throat, and while the gillian thrashes, stunned, he grasps the edges of the slice he’d made with his horn, ripping it wider, and tears at the exposed flesh with his fangs. The first mouthful fuels the hungry inferno. The meat is the same as any other he’s eaten, but it seems so much sweeter.
He eats, and eats and eats, unable to stop even when his stomach is full and his jaws are tired. The hunger has him, and instinct overrides intellect. Ulquiorra feels his skin splitting and his bones snapping, yet still he devours until there is nothing left of the gillian, and at last, at long last, the hunger is appeased.
The trees waver before his eyes, and he blinks several times to clear them, but it changes nothing. Dimly, Ulquiorra realizes that he is growing. The trees are not getting smaller, he is getting larger, becoming thicker and heavier. This evolution feels different than the others, and he realizes why when a wall of voices slams into his mind.
Me, me, me!
Mine, it’s mine!
Where am I?
I’ll kill you all!
I’m here!
Let me out!
Struggling against the tide, he tries to find his way back out of the forest, breaking into a lurching run when he feels the approach of others.
Other menos. The thought skitters across what’s left of his mind, but he cannot spare anything to acknowledge the realization that he’s turning into one of them.
In the end, he is crawling when he finally escapes the forest. Beyond it, the vastness of Hueco Mundo stretches endlessly. Collapsing on the sand under the pale moonlight, he writhes helplessly, glowing fiercely, clinging to his splintering mind as his body expands.
“Ulquiorra,” he tries to say repeatedly, but all that comes out is a shrill scream as the others fight for control, and awareness fades as Ulquiorra is swept up in the sea of voices.
The glow fades. It doesn’t notice.
It looms over the barren desert. The moon shines brightly now, but blacker-than-black skin devours and rejects the light, and it is a cold, dark spot on the landscape.
*
It fights. It wins.
It eats.
It grows.
*
It gulps the last morsel; the chunk of darkness slides easily down its gullet. After one final roar of victory, it slinks deeper into the forest. Replete for the time being, it rests. It is tired, and knows innately to gather its strength for the next battle.
Deep within the chaotic mass of swirling personalities, he senses the weariness of the group, and snatches at the chance.
He fights.
The voices yell, scream, cry… threaten, whimper, and cajole… but he ignores them all, wrenching his self away from the churning sea and clawing away. Up he surges, up up ever higher. The clinging voices grow desperate and violent. They tear at him, shredding the edges where he can’t block them out.
In the battle for supremacy, his voice sings out higher than the rest, a single name cried out with strength and determination, and the other voices fade to a distant hum.
Its mask morphs. The nose shrinks, and the top curves over to cover the back of its head. Twin horns sprout from both sides, sweeping up and back, gleaming wickedly.
Ulquiorra stretches, evaluating the body that is familiar and new all at once. He knows how to use this form instinctively. As quick as thought, his reiatsu responds to a casual flex, and energy for a cero builds almost effortlessly. He basks in the red glow for a moment, then lets the energy ebb.
Strength he has in abundance, but it must be conserved. The other voices are muted now, but they aren’t gone, and he can feel them roiling far below the surface.
He rests, safe for now in the shadows. The ubiquitous hunger is only a faint tingle after the rich feast his body has just consumed. While Ulquiorra rests physically, he exercises mentally. Implacably, he delves for information, filtering through what the underlying group consciousness knows and accepting the new data into his own psyche.
Then, one by one, he ruthlessly begins crushing the other personalities, absorbing what remains of their strength.
The master rules alone.
*
When Ulquiorra changes again, it is much less dramatic. He remembers other evolutions involved bones snapping and the agonizing shift and tear of reforming muscles. This time it is comparatively easy. No writhing, no helpless convulsions, just the sharp sting of splitting skin, and a blinding flash. Energy swells within him, the excess bleeding out in twin streams that leak from his eyes and burn a path down both cheeks before dripping off his chin to sizzle on the sand at his feet. Then he is slithering out of the slowly dissolving shell of his gillian form.
That gives him pause; he tries to look at himself, and realizes as his head swivels much too far around that he’s become very different. His neck is long and thick, his head protected by a bony helmet that sweeps back from his horns. Ridged armour plating covers his neck and spine, curving over a sinuous body that ends in four broad, fin-like appendages and a heavy, pointed tail.
He also discovers he’s got wings - long, wide wings that sweep out on either side. He flexes experimentally, creating great gusts of air that swirl the sand at his feet as the two knobbly joints on each wing bend, the ribbed membranes folding over themselves neatly.
Tattered gobbets of gillian-flesh still cling to his body; he tears them away with gleaming black claws, and allows himself a deep, satisfied rumble. His new body is smaller and more compact than his previous form, but even greater power sings through him now.
The transformation hasn’t left him weakened or tired, and Ulquiorra wants to test his strength. Sensing and tracking suitable prey is ridiculously easy, and he sets off toward his target with heightened anticipation.
He discovers that while he cannot fly great distances, he can hop and glide, quite far if he catches the air currents off the tops of tall sand dunes. Even this much flight is thrilling; the cool rush over his wings is invigorating, and he feels he could continue this way for a long, long time without growing tired.
His eyes have become incredibly sharp, and spotting his prey once he is in range is even simpler than sensing it had been in the first place. The prey senses him far too late, shrieking and tumbling over the side of a tall sand dune in a vain attempt to escape.
Ulquiorra strikes. Hard and fast, he plummets down with exquisite precision, talons sinking deep into his prey’s back. To his delight, sharp fangs descend in his mouth as he plunges his teeth into its shoulder, and his growl as he tears away his first mouthful is almost a laugh.
*
His next evolution comes more quickly than he expects. The now-familiar press of power and tension begins building soon after his last transformation. Fortunately, his new form makes the hunger easy to appease. Meals large and small are consumed with ease, their power absorbed effortlessly into his own.
When he changes again, the transformation is nearly seamless. There’s a brief shimmer in the air around him and he feels his body grow light, his bones and muscles shifting fluidly. He peers over his shoulder to investigate a curious tearing sensation at his back, and sees his wings split off and dissolve before his neck won’t turn that far anymore.
Then the welcome rush of power fills him and solidifies him again.
Ulquiorra smiles.
Being smaller again takes some getting used to, but it’s well worth it for the power pulsing through him. His strength has increased despite the decrease in physical size, so he hasn’t lost anything there, either. Flexing fingers that look fragile compared to his former talons, Ulquiorra crushes the skull of the sinuous Hollow writhing at his feet. It twitches one last time then goes limp, bloody lumps of brain and bone squishing out over Ulquiorra’s hand and wrist and plopping to the sand.
Ulquiorra drops the carcass and strides away. He shakes the debris off his hand and retracts his claws, satisfied with how neatly they sheathe. There’s no drive to devour the creature, no immediate hunger urging him on, and for the first time Ulquiorra feels free to choose his next battle based on… something else.
As pleased as he is with his new form and power, he knows it makes him a bigger target. Greater power means drawing greater opponents.
Even as he leaves the field of this victory, he can sense the approach of others - many, and strong.
Ulquiorra bares his teeth and welcomes the challenge.
*
As he lies dying, beside the mangled corpses of a dozen defeated opponents on the roughly churned sand, Ulquiorra wonders if this is truly how it ends. If this was the point of his entire existence, to live and feed and die in this place. It doesn’t seem like quite enough, and he wonders if somehow there ought to have been more. It feels like there should have been something more.
“You fight very well.” An unfamiliar voice floats across the battlefield. “I thought you’d win, but Gin here thought you would probably die.”
“Ah, but he’s such a small li’l thing.” A second unfamiliar voice, slow and slick, causes the fine hairs on the back of Ulquiorra’s neck to rise.
Shinigami. Two of them. Both are concealing their reiatsu, but Ulquiorra can still sense their power. One of them radiates command, his energy thick, dark, and heady. The other is weaker, but not by much, and he bears an aura of malevolence that’s as repulsive as the other’s is alluring.
“What do you want?” Ulquiorra rasps, ignoring the agony lancing through his gut as he rolls to face them, blinking the blood out of his eyes to keep the pair clearly in his sights as they stepped toward him, heedless of the carnage staining their pristine white tabi.
“His skills’re impressive, Aizen-taichou, ’s a shame they ain’t quite enough ta keep him alive anymore.”
“Indeed, it would be a great pity to lose such ability,” the shinigami called Aizen says, stopping just out of reach, looking down at him with a thoughtful expression. “You fought so hard, I don’t think you’re quite ready to die yet, are you?”
Such an obvious question doesn’t deserve an answer, but in his current state Ulquiorra can’t afford to pass up the opportunity to gather his strength - whether it’ll be used to fight or flee will depend on whether these shinigami decide to try and kill him. It’s probably pointless, he’s in no shape to win a fight with even one strong opponent, but it isn’t in him to simply give up.
Licking his lips, Ulquiorra steels himself against the pain to come, takes a breath, and forces out a single word. “No.” Immediately, he’s taken by a wracking cough - two sharp heaves that leave a mouthful of clotted blood on the sand, proof that something inside him is broken and bleeding.
“That’s good.” Aizen seems openly pleased at his response, which only makes Ulquiorra more wary. “A man needs a solid grasp on what he wants in order to be worthy.”
“I’m… not a man.”
“No, not yet.” Aizen pauses. “But if you were, your powers would increase exponentially, and you’d never again find your life spilling uselessly into the sand.”
More power. Enough to satisfy the unending cravings? Ulquiorra stares hard at Aizen. “How?”
“It’s a simple enough process. The barriers between Hollows and shinigami are thinner than you might expect. If you break down that barrier, one can access the powers of the other. Of both.” Aizen flicks his finger toward nothing in particular, and a portal winks into existence. Reflected in the shimmering surface is a sprawling palace. At another casual gesture, the focus zooms smoothly toward the palace, stopping in front of the two massive doors at the front. The doors are carved all over with symbols Ulquiorra doesn’t recognize, but the power radiating from their stark lines is unmistakeable.
“Let me help you.” Aizen smiles as he extends his hand. “You could be so much more than you are now. Your potential is too great to be wasted watering the sand.”
Potential is a compelling word. What more might he become? Pain shreds his lungs, and Ulquiorra blinks hard against the darkness closing around the edges of his vision. Disregarding the outstretched hand, he plants both hands beneath him and struggles to his knees.
“If I were going to kill you, you’d already be dead,” Aizen says, his tone far too soft for such a bold statement.
“It isn’t about you,” Ulquiorra bites out. His panting breaths hiss from between clenched teeth as he lurches to his feet unaided. Dizziness clouds his vision even further, but he’s not about to reach out to the dangerous strangers. The power the shinigami wields so nonchalantly is both staggering and enticing… and Ulquiorra doesn’t want to die.
“I see,” Aizen murmurs. In his weakened state Ulquiorra isn’t sure if the hint of approval he thinks he hears is real.
“Show me,” Ulquiorra demands. Aizen smiles again, and the image doesn’t even waver as Gin enters the portal and appears on the other side, a tiny figure before the monumental doors. A moment later, Aizen doesn’t hesitate to turn his back on Ulquiorra and step through the portal.
Two agonizing footsteps bring Ulquiorra right to the portal’s edge, and, with his vision fading, he stares into it for only a second before plunging forward.
Darkness smothers his consciousness before he falls out in a bloody, unmoving heap on the other side.
*
Pain.
Bones snapping, muscles tearing.
Ulquiorra clenches his teeth until their grinding resounds in his skull. He despises the physical display he cannot contain, but he refuses to utter a single sound that would betray his discomfort.
The shinigami stands before him, projecting confidence and calm. His warm brown eyes hold Ulquiorra’s gaze, glittering with approval.
Ulquiorra won’t shame himself. His left arm won’t move, but he forces his right hand up to his face. With a flex of his wrist he extends his claws and jams them straight into his mask.
Agony.
Fire freezing every nerve. Ice scalding his flesh.
He pulls sharply, again and again until a small piece of his mask cracks and breaks off. Energy explodes from beneath it, blowing his hand away from his face, and he can feel more cracks splintering up the side of his mask.
Still he refuses to cry out. His energy keeps blasting out of him, and though he grows weaker with every passing moment, something new and stronger flows into him in exchange.
Ulquiorra…
The voice echoes in the back of his mind. It is faint, but the harder he pulls, the stronger it grows.
…release me, Ulquiorra Schiffer!
When the entire right side of his mask crumbles away, the last of his energy is gone, and he slumps heavily to the ground. The new power pulsates inside him - filling him, embracing him, engulfing him completely.
Ulquiorra pushes himself to his knees, and brings trembling hands up to feel his newly exposed face. Before him on the ground is a shining blade, its silvery hilt wrapped in green. It’s his, he knows instinctively. He picks it up and the voice sings to him again, and a matching green scabbard materializes as he murmurs the blade’s name.
Gazing up at the shinigami, Ulquiorra sees him in an entirely new light, wondering how he could have missed it before.
“Master,” is all he says.
*
Strange to think that he has a master now. Stranger to think of himself as a ‘man’. But he does, and he is, and he knows it. Feels it, in the core of his being. Ulquiorra rubs his fingers over his chest, where his hole now rides high near his neck, then trails them to the side to tug at the high collar of the long-tailed white coat. Clothing is strange as well, but as long as it doesn’t hinder his movements, he doesn’t care.
He’s been fighting for what seems like days. Through it all, Aizen-sama has been watching all the arrancar as they battle for position, establishing their dominance within the ranks. Several have fallen at Ulquiorra’s hand, and he can tell that his performance has cowed several others into withdrawing.
Some others, however, just seem more interested. An obnoxious arrancar with bright blue hair sneers openly at everyone, brimming over with self-importance at having been chosen.
“Think yer somethin’ special, do ya?” He swaggers toward Ulquiorra, prideful and brash. “It’ll take more than the likes of you to kill me!”
Ulquiorra is relieved that their confrontation has come at last, and he has hopes that by defeating the loud and annoying man, he won’t have to deal with him again. Reasoning that it should be fairly simple to unsettle such a volatile personality, he begins the clash with words.
“I will not kill you,” Ulquiorra tells him flatly. “Killing inferior opponents does not interest me. Defeating you will suffice.”
An angry flush suffuses the arrancar’s face, and Ulquiorra thinks even less of him now in view of how freely he shows his weakness. “No one insults Grimmjow without paying for it in blood!” the arrancar, Grimmjow, snarls, charging toward him.
Dodging Grimmjow’s frantic rush isn’t difficult, and Ulquiorra throws a kick that buckles Grimmjow’s knee as he passes. Grimmjow isn’t a bad fighter, but he’s a careless one, letting his emotions control his actions. Ulquiorra sidesteps another raging attack, but to his surprise this one is a feint. Faster than Ulquiorra expects from him, Grimmjow stops and spins around, and then the battle truly begins.
They fight hand and foot, throwing punches and kicks, blocking and dodging. Ulquiorra carefully avoids letting Grimmjow close with him, unwilling to engage in a wrestling match, suspecting the cost in strength and energy would leave him too drained to stand up to further battles. He’s already a target in these spontaneous competitions, and he can’t afford to give his opponents any advantage.
Then Grimmjow abruptly changes the terms of the fight. Instead of following up and returning Ulquiorra’s attacks, he merely defends until he can dance away. Tearing his zanpakutou out of its sheath, Grimmjow grins wickedly as he twirls it expertly. Ulquiorra notes the speed and precision with which Grimmjow manoeuvres his blade, but he isn’t overly impressed. He won’t need his own zanpakutou for this. He’s bonded with it, getting to know its quirks and strengths, but he still prefers to use his body as his weapon.
“Kishire, Pantera!” Grimmjow throws himself backward in a wide roll; when he flies forward again he’s changed. He hurls his sleek, armoured body toward Ulquiorra, thick spiky mane bristling. Clawed fingers swipe perilously close to Ulquiorra’s throat, only just missing when Ulquiorra’s sonido takes him out of reach.
Speed is something Ulquiorra’s never been lacking; hard on the heels of his first sonido, he performs a second, one that brings him inside Grimmjow’s guard before Grimmjow has his feet under him. Ulquiorra thrusts both hands toward Grimmjow’s face, and, in the moment of confusion where instinct overrides cunning and Grimmjow ducks, brings his leg up high and fast, smashing into the side of Grimmjow’s head.
Grimmjow sprawls at his feet, a rough cry of pain and frustration torn from his throat. Ulquiorra assesses him impassively. Maybe he should kill this one. He is weak, and unstable, and having someone like him around could be more of a liability, no matter his skill.
Uncertain, Ulquiorra glances at Aizen-sama, but there’s no clear answer, only mild interest on his master’s face, and an outraged howl from Grimmjow draws his attention back quickly.
“Ya stupid lapdog, if yer gonna kill me, do it for yerself!” Grimmjow spits, clawing at the floor as he struggles to rise.
The angry words stir something in Ulquiorra, and his body moves to instantly enact a decision he’s not sure why he’s made. Shifting his weight to the side to easily avoid Grimmjow’s last awkward attack, Ulquiorra focuses his energy in his hand and strikes with stiffened fingers.
Bone and flesh part with a wet crunch. Grimmjow’s eyes fly wide, and blood spews from his mouth in a violent gush, and he claws in vain at Ulquiorra’s arm. Ulquiorra can’t logically connect the hatred burning in Grimmjow’s eyes with the triumph underlying his pained grimace.
Not that it matters.
The wound squelches as Ulquiorra pulls his hand out of Grimmjow’s chest, letting the defeated arrancar drop unceremoniously to the floor.
Defeating Grimmjow is his final victory. Only three opponents are willing to challenge him after that, and their skillful performances so far have earned a measure of wary respect. Ulquiorra suppresses the tiredness creeping through his body and focuses on assessing his opponents as they approach him, one by one. Their powers are greater than Grimmjow’s by a large margin, and greater than his own to varying degrees. But being strongest doesn’t necessarily mean being best, and the only guarantee of defeat is to give up before he’s begun.
Ulquiorra doesn’t waste time. Immediately drawing his zanpakutou, he embraces the whispering energy sliding down its length and along his spine, and releases his full power for each fight.
“Tsubasa wo hirogete, Cuélebre!” Spread your wings.
Assuming a form much like his adjuchas form boosts his power immensely. His wings, though missed, don’t help him in these battles, but his long, prehensile tail is an enormous asset.
Despite all of that, however, he cannot defeat the old man, or the woman, or the man who looks half-asleep, but Aizen-sama doesn’t seem disappointed. Instead he smiles, and congratulates Ulquiorra on doing so well. Ulquiorra bows, folding one hand over his chest and tucking the other behind him, and when he straightens he’s startled at how close his master has come. Still smiling, Aizen-sama stretches out his hand and places it upon Ulquiorra’s bared breast.
Warmth explodes in Ulquiorra’s chest, pleasant at first but growing hotter, uncomfortably so. He refuses to move, refuses to let his face so much as twitch as he holds his head high and endures. The heat only increases, and pain fans out across his chest. By the time Aizen-sama removes his hand, Ulquiorra has to struggle not to go limp, and he wonders if he’s had another hole burned straight through him.
“Look,” Aizen-sama prompts him softly. “Behold the mark you have earned… cuatro espada.”
Stunned, Ulquiorra glances down at his chest, and his heart swells with pride as he sees the bold numeral branded into his pale skin. Cuatro espada. Number four.
“Thank you, Aizen-sama,” he breathes, falling to his knees.
*
It makes no sense. Ulquiorra stands outside Orihime’s chamber and listens to her muffled sobs, remembering the stinging heat of her full-armed slap. She defies him constantly, no matter the downcast eyes and obedient phrases tumbling out of her mouth. There’s no reason, no proof, yet she continues to believe that everything will work out, that her friends will rescue her and they’ll all live to fight together another day.
It’s utterly illogical. They can’t hope to win against Aizen-sama, yet they keep trying. And for what? For friendship, for the team, for love. They prattle on about all of these things as they fight and fall and foolishly stand up again.
It makes no sense, yet it seems to work, to some extent. Ulquiorra frowns at a spot on the wall as he silently concedes this point. According to his research, Kurosaki Ichigo has been knocked down and stood up again more times than any three men should, and his companions are turning out to be just as bad.
Now this woman, this lone woman, stands before him and refuses to stay down no matter how many times she falls. In her eyes, Ulquiorra can see her faith and determination shining brightly, mocking him and everything he is.
Part of him wants to show her how wrong she is, how wrong they all are, wants to extinguish that light and crush that determination and everything it stands for.
An echo of a shadow of a memory clouds his mind’s eye, and for a single instant he sees a broken but unbeaten figure staggering stubbornly across moonlit, blood-stained sand.
Part of him can’t help but admire it.
*
“Get away from Inoue.” The expression Kurosaki Ichigo wears as he delivers this command is flat and uncompromising. Ulquiorra grants him that, silently acknowledging that he’s earned the right to make the demand, if for no other reason than he’s still alive to deliver it.
Still standing strong, still determined to win.
“I plan to,” Ulquiorra says evenly. “My job is to defend Las Noches until Aizen returns. I have no orders to kill the girl. I’ll let her live until I receive orders to do so.”
He stares at the substitute shinigami, gauging his mood. “But you’re different. Killing you is protecting Las Noches. So I’ll eradicate you with my sword.”
Unexpectedly, Kurosaki quirks a smile. “I’m surprised,” he says, “I didn’t think you’d unsheathe your sword right away. I thought I’d have to get you to unsheathe it.” He pauses, his eyes flickering toward Ulquiorra’s hand on the hilt of his zanpakutou. “So, does that mean you see me as a worthy opponent, now?”
Ulquiorra finds himself wanting to smile, too, but he doesn’t think these two humans in front of him would understand why. He’s not even sure he understands it himself, but hazy thoughts are slowly coalescing in his mind.
“At the very least,” he replies instead, “I see you as someone who must be destroyed.”
“Good enough for me.” Kurosaki’s grin grows wider, but his rough tone belies his outward display of calm. It’s clear he wants to fight.
Ulquiorra understands that much, at least. The same need to prove the superiority of his beliefs throbs inside him like a second heartbeat. Nothing he’s done has been able to crush their spirit. They stand before him in defiance of everything he’s worked for, everything he knows, everything he’s believed. Despite all the obstacles against them, they still refuse to stand down and accept their inevitable defeat.
They’ll fight, not caring that they could lose their unimportant little lives, believing instead that their efforts give meaning to whatever end they meet... and they’re content with that.
Why?
The answer is there, finally. No matter how this ends, they’ll have made a difference. They’ll have had an impact; their actions all this time have helped shape the lives of the people around them, right down to the details of this conflict.
None of this matters, Ulquiorra realizes even as he shifts into his battle stance. Only the journey is ever really important, never the destination.
Ulquiorra doesn’t know how to thank them for that insight, even if it’s too late. All he can do now is make sure the rest of his own journey matters.
“Tsubasa wo hirogete, Cuélebre!”
Spread your wings.
END
Concept sketch!
Yeah, this is about as good as my art gets. :) I thought it might be fun to show you guys anyway, to see how I work. I drew this when I was planning out Ulquiorra's adjuchas form. You can clearly see where I changed my mind on his body position, and forgot to reverse his wing - I had to PS it the right way around, lol! Click for full size, if you dare!
