[Bleach] With Roses In My Hands - Il Forte, Arrancar
Title: With Roses In My Hands
Fandom: Bleach
Characters: Il Forte, mentions of Szayel and Grimmjow and Aizen
Notes: Speed ficcing with
mysocalledhell . Prompt was “fear”.
“Brother dearest of mine,” are words that instill fear in Il Forte’s mind, wrapping him in a black cloak of deceit. Szayel is a treacherous one, someone that could easily trick and fool the carelessly naïve. Il Forte has long forsaken innocence and naivety and all things pure. He revels in blood, flesh, and bone - it is instinct plain and simple, to him at least. His brother has always been an odd ball, the odd duck who is more interested in dissecting entrails piece by piece than eating them for breakfast. Out of instinct, like how he thinks, how he reacts to situations … he fears Szayel like he fears no other. Szayel, who could cut him open and not feel a hint of regret. His brother that could lick the blood off a knife that has ripped him open and grin as if he hasn’t done a thing wrong, as if it isn’t a sin to murder that which one is supposed to care about. Szayel knows not what familial ties are, he figures they are just a waste of his time and he has cut them all, one by one. Il Forte just refuses to let go.
Even though he hates everything about Szayel, everything that that brother of his represents, he can’t help but think Szayel has so much more potential than him. It’s a complex, perhaps, an inferiority complex to the younger brother who will outlive and outweigh Il Forte’s own usefulness. The fear he feels borders on reverence, the likes of which one would bestow upon a rightfully deserving God. But that can’t be right, how could it? Szayel is not the God he is supposed to see, he is just the person who does God’s bidding. He is a messenger of Hell, an angel of that Hell that has descended to the fiery pit of misery that is merely nothing more than Hueco Mundo in its white sand and priceless glory. Aizen is King, the God that will take over and make everything into his pilgrimage land, his homeland of the Holy.
He follows and trusts Aizen like he trust no other because he hopes this false God that has risen will take away the fear all Hollows are cursed with - a curse that is wrongfully cast out and used to make Hollows into the instinctual beasts they are. Grimmjow is one such beast that has not retained any form of modest decency. He admires Grimmjow like he admires no other because there is no doubt in the way his superior, the one serves, does things. There is only resolve, a determination to rise above those that think they are right and make them see how wrong their beliefs are and will forever be because Grimmjow is right, Grimmjow is supreme in his logical illogic. Il Forte sees this all, knows this all, but he can’t stop the foreign emotions that these strange matters bring. Fear, admiration, trust; they once meant nothing, and now they are but a way of life to his frightened mind. The blame lies with Szayel for starting something he never saw through. Szayel who makes him think things he shouldn’t think. Szayel who makes and breaks him each day.
--
He releases his full form on a petty Shinigami, determined he is going to win against this non-believer of the one he trusts. This Abarai man who thinks ill of his King, his false God who is but a hairsbreadth away from completing his plans for the Ouken. With his release, he roars, free at last to be in that form which is truly the most magnificent. The man who has nothing left to reveal falls before his power, about to die - if it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of this girl who thinks she will do the man a favor by blocking Il Forte’s power - his glorious, righteous power. The defeat is instantaneous, he doesn’t even know when he stops breathing and living on in an unreal world of reality, falling to the ground in a limp mass of unreleased flesh that will decay, the soul that fuels him already gone. His trust has been laid to waste, his admiration is not what will save him, and his fear … it has been that one thing he should have trusted more in and possibly even admired that reverent emotion of anxiousness more so than anything else. Today is the last day his instincts let him down, today as he sleeps in eternal sleep.
Fandom: Bleach
Characters: Il Forte, mentions of Szayel and Grimmjow and Aizen
Notes: Speed ficcing with
mysocalledhell . Prompt was “fear”.
“Brother dearest of mine,” are words that instill fear in Il Forte’s mind, wrapping him in a black cloak of deceit. Szayel is a treacherous one, someone that could easily trick and fool the carelessly naïve. Il Forte has long forsaken innocence and naivety and all things pure. He revels in blood, flesh, and bone - it is instinct plain and simple, to him at least. His brother has always been an odd ball, the odd duck who is more interested in dissecting entrails piece by piece than eating them for breakfast. Out of instinct, like how he thinks, how he reacts to situations … he fears Szayel like he fears no other. Szayel, who could cut him open and not feel a hint of regret. His brother that could lick the blood off a knife that has ripped him open and grin as if he hasn’t done a thing wrong, as if it isn’t a sin to murder that which one is supposed to care about. Szayel knows not what familial ties are, he figures they are just a waste of his time and he has cut them all, one by one. Il Forte just refuses to let go.
Even though he hates everything about Szayel, everything that that brother of his represents, he can’t help but think Szayel has so much more potential than him. It’s a complex, perhaps, an inferiority complex to the younger brother who will outlive and outweigh Il Forte’s own usefulness. The fear he feels borders on reverence, the likes of which one would bestow upon a rightfully deserving God. But that can’t be right, how could it? Szayel is not the God he is supposed to see, he is just the person who does God’s bidding. He is a messenger of Hell, an angel of that Hell that has descended to the fiery pit of misery that is merely nothing more than Hueco Mundo in its white sand and priceless glory. Aizen is King, the God that will take over and make everything into his pilgrimage land, his homeland of the Holy.
He follows and trusts Aizen like he trust no other because he hopes this false God that has risen will take away the fear all Hollows are cursed with - a curse that is wrongfully cast out and used to make Hollows into the instinctual beasts they are. Grimmjow is one such beast that has not retained any form of modest decency. He admires Grimmjow like he admires no other because there is no doubt in the way his superior, the one serves, does things. There is only resolve, a determination to rise above those that think they are right and make them see how wrong their beliefs are and will forever be because Grimmjow is right, Grimmjow is supreme in his logical illogic. Il Forte sees this all, knows this all, but he can’t stop the foreign emotions that these strange matters bring. Fear, admiration, trust; they once meant nothing, and now they are but a way of life to his frightened mind. The blame lies with Szayel for starting something he never saw through. Szayel who makes him think things he shouldn’t think. Szayel who makes and breaks him each day.
--
He releases his full form on a petty Shinigami, determined he is going to win against this non-believer of the one he trusts. This Abarai man who thinks ill of his King, his false God who is but a hairsbreadth away from completing his plans for the Ouken. With his release, he roars, free at last to be in that form which is truly the most magnificent. The man who has nothing left to reveal falls before his power, about to die - if it hadn’t been for the sudden appearance of this girl who thinks she will do the man a favor by blocking Il Forte’s power - his glorious, righteous power. The defeat is instantaneous, he doesn’t even know when he stops breathing and living on in an unreal world of reality, falling to the ground in a limp mass of unreleased flesh that will decay, the soul that fuels him already gone. His trust has been laid to waste, his admiration is not what will save him, and his fear … it has been that one thing he should have trusted more in and possibly even admired that reverent emotion of anxiousness more so than anything else. Today is the last day his instincts let him down, today as he sleeps in eternal sleep.