318;
Cirucci Thunderwitch might have asked herself how it could have come to this, if she did not know that precisely was her problem, not knowing. How it had come to this, how things had turned out this way… baffling, unfamiliar questions to a proud and powerful Arrancar. Perhaps they would not be so foreign to a disgraced and shamed Privaron Espada, but it was easy for her still to deny that fact, the proof of her weakness branded on her in the scar shaped like old, so gone rank. No, those questions did not belong in her head, she knew, those doubts and those worries, no more than the gap in her memory, year long and some, belonged there.
The apartment was not at all familiar to her, despite seeming to be something she would have done, had she a mind to take up residence somewhere. The mantelpiece, that was also a source of further confusion, looking to the trophies- and she knew they had to be, with only the knowledge it was her and those things belonged to shinigami - and knowing she had claimed them all but with no insight as to how, when, or why. Pale fingers and dark nails ran over them somewhat reverently, seeking in her mind the information surrounding them, and found nothing, found only the hilt pieces of blades, lanks of bloodied hair, bone, and what looked to be a withered flesh, a tongue kept in the center, which surely meant it was most important, somehow, but it escaped her as she passed slowly in to the bedroom.
The clothing was not at all familiar to her, despite knowing that if she would select things beyond her uniform to wear, then yes, these aligned with her tastes. Purple silks and white satins, flashy numbers and clinging forms, short skirts and heels, garters and jewelry… it all matched her idea of her own fashion, but she could not recall buying them, could not recall wearing or function, only eyed them sprawled across the bed sheets before shoving them to the side and clearing way for her body.
The bed was not at all familiar, though despite her assurance that it was. Lying there on her back, eyes blank and dull violet, she could almost see his face above hers, from that time, his leering expression and laughter, sick and she hated it, as he recounted her weaknesses, her supposed exploits and supposed bed partners. It was not outside the realm of possibility in some sense, but in her mind… impossible. Because she could not remember, and the only person these sheets had known, as long as she had known, had been herself, no other, no warming presence to her cold body.
The body that was not at all familiar to her, despite being obviously her own. Of course she would know her own form, intimately from her vanity, every curve and shape, every mar and imperfection, every perfection, like the hole clean through, below and between her breasts, where a heart had once rested. But the majority being known did not prevent the overwhelming disconcert that choked her at the sight of the scars she could not trace. Only one should be there, only one, the cursed and reviled mark of her shame and outcast, the five that tainted her breast in puckered tissue on otherwise perfect skin. But her fingers ceased tracing it out of loathed habit, dipped down and followed the line of a clean cut along her stomach, swallowing nervously. One. A chaotic pierce scar, there, on her shoulder. Two. A rampant and large sword cut, wrenched and torn as it was removed, there, just above her hollow hole and hidden, if she sat just so, in the swell of her breasts. Three.
The cold that was not at familiar- none of it- all of the little pieces of not familiar left a gaping hole that was most unlike the lack of heart. Without that heart, freed of things like love and caring, sympathy and friendship, she was made in to this existence, hollow, adjuchas, arrancar. That lack defined her, where all of these others tried to erase.
Here, in a bathtub like some weak willed woman, she clutched her knees and finally let herself shiver, because it was cold, she was always cold, and the only reason, they said, for that, was death. Being bested here, in this place… by him, by that Quincy, with his hard eyes but that condescending, pitying glint behind-
She hated it.
It was cold, and her hair clung to her face from the weight of the steam roiling off the water, she sweated and shivered, and it was still a dull and frigid ache in her bones, those light avian things that drew from Golondrina for their power. Golondrina, who, unlike shinigami zanpakutou was no separate identity so much as just a part of herself, seemed so very distant to her- to this forgetful part of her, as if rebuking her weakness, her doubt and her confusion. Because Golondrina, that bone and feather and steel and pride, all sealed up, still remembered. The keeper of that knowledge and yet never speaking, because Golondrina had known, and Golondrina had seen all of it, but now whispered no sounds of feathers creaking or haunting croons in the back of her mind, her own reassurances to her own damned mind had even deserted her.
It never worked, and so she stood, simply moved dripping across the floor idly picking up the light and short hemmed robe flung casually over a chair, grabbing a towel and drying her hair in silence, icy and stern silence, coming to stand in the mirror. The bone mask, so ivory perfect on her skull, and the beading of the bones that clacked softly against each other when they moved. The tear marks on those shapely cheeks, the hole between her breasts, the release, the reiatsu thrum thrum thrumming in her saketsu chain-
That one thought and she thought of him again, Quincy, enemy, foe, mortal little upstart, friend to shinigami, and her-
Her victor.
She, defeated, and he, the victor, it was so clearly created in her mind, the truth she could not accept and still could deny, word of mouth and she could deny it, deny it, deny it, it was false and wrong, and-
The Thunderwitch had not realized what she had done until she heard the glass cracking beneath her knuckles, saw the cracks race each other across the mirror, shattering her reflection and slowly breaking, pieces falling around her, reflecting the glow of her out of control reiatsu, nigh tangible pressure, and her face contorted with hatred and distress.
She needed it all back.
... Now that that is done and fucking over with.
Deities, was it?
The one that messed with my memories, whether I asked for it or not-, I want a word.
[ooc; the cut above is just a little thing I wrote that sorta... goes over her motivations leading up to this decision- lame and all that stuff, so nothing of great importance, more for my own 'working through it in my mind' than anything else.]
The apartment was not at all familiar to her, despite seeming to be something she would have done, had she a mind to take up residence somewhere. The mantelpiece, that was also a source of further confusion, looking to the trophies- and she knew they had to be, with only the knowledge it was her and those things belonged to shinigami - and knowing she had claimed them all but with no insight as to how, when, or why. Pale fingers and dark nails ran over them somewhat reverently, seeking in her mind the information surrounding them, and found nothing, found only the hilt pieces of blades, lanks of bloodied hair, bone, and what looked to be a withered flesh, a tongue kept in the center, which surely meant it was most important, somehow, but it escaped her as she passed slowly in to the bedroom.
The clothing was not at all familiar to her, despite knowing that if she would select things beyond her uniform to wear, then yes, these aligned with her tastes. Purple silks and white satins, flashy numbers and clinging forms, short skirts and heels, garters and jewelry… it all matched her idea of her own fashion, but she could not recall buying them, could not recall wearing or function, only eyed them sprawled across the bed sheets before shoving them to the side and clearing way for her body.
The bed was not at all familiar, though despite her assurance that it was. Lying there on her back, eyes blank and dull violet, she could almost see his face above hers, from that time, his leering expression and laughter, sick and she hated it, as he recounted her weaknesses, her supposed exploits and supposed bed partners. It was not outside the realm of possibility in some sense, but in her mind… impossible. Because she could not remember, and the only person these sheets had known, as long as she had known, had been herself, no other, no warming presence to her cold body.
The body that was not at all familiar to her, despite being obviously her own. Of course she would know her own form, intimately from her vanity, every curve and shape, every mar and imperfection, every perfection, like the hole clean through, below and between her breasts, where a heart had once rested. But the majority being known did not prevent the overwhelming disconcert that choked her at the sight of the scars she could not trace. Only one should be there, only one, the cursed and reviled mark of her shame and outcast, the five that tainted her breast in puckered tissue on otherwise perfect skin. But her fingers ceased tracing it out of loathed habit, dipped down and followed the line of a clean cut along her stomach, swallowing nervously. One. A chaotic pierce scar, there, on her shoulder. Two. A rampant and large sword cut, wrenched and torn as it was removed, there, just above her hollow hole and hidden, if she sat just so, in the swell of her breasts. Three.
The cold that was not at familiar- none of it- all of the little pieces of not familiar left a gaping hole that was most unlike the lack of heart. Without that heart, freed of things like love and caring, sympathy and friendship, she was made in to this existence, hollow, adjuchas, arrancar. That lack defined her, where all of these others tried to erase.
Here, in a bathtub like some weak willed woman, she clutched her knees and finally let herself shiver, because it was cold, she was always cold, and the only reason, they said, for that, was death. Being bested here, in this place… by him, by that Quincy, with his hard eyes but that condescending, pitying glint behind-
She hated it.
It was cold, and her hair clung to her face from the weight of the steam roiling off the water, she sweated and shivered, and it was still a dull and frigid ache in her bones, those light avian things that drew from Golondrina for their power. Golondrina, who, unlike shinigami zanpakutou was no separate identity so much as just a part of herself, seemed so very distant to her- to this forgetful part of her, as if rebuking her weakness, her doubt and her confusion. Because Golondrina, that bone and feather and steel and pride, all sealed up, still remembered. The keeper of that knowledge and yet never speaking, because Golondrina had known, and Golondrina had seen all of it, but now whispered no sounds of feathers creaking or haunting croons in the back of her mind, her own reassurances to her own damned mind had even deserted her.
It never worked, and so she stood, simply moved dripping across the floor idly picking up the light and short hemmed robe flung casually over a chair, grabbing a towel and drying her hair in silence, icy and stern silence, coming to stand in the mirror. The bone mask, so ivory perfect on her skull, and the beading of the bones that clacked softly against each other when they moved. The tear marks on those shapely cheeks, the hole between her breasts, the release, the reiatsu thrum thrum thrumming in her saketsu chain-
That one thought and she thought of him again, Quincy, enemy, foe, mortal little upstart, friend to shinigami, and her-
Her victor.
She, defeated, and he, the victor, it was so clearly created in her mind, the truth she could not accept and still could deny, word of mouth and she could deny it, deny it, deny it, it was false and wrong, and-
The Thunderwitch had not realized what she had done until she heard the glass cracking beneath her knuckles, saw the cracks race each other across the mirror, shattering her reflection and slowly breaking, pieces falling around her, reflecting the glow of her out of control reiatsu, nigh tangible pressure, and her face contorted with hatred and distress.
She needed it all back.
... Now that that is done and fucking over with.
Deities, was it?
The one that messed with my memories, whether I asked for it or not-, I want a word.
[ooc; the cut above is just a little thing I wrote that sorta... goes over her motivations leading up to this decision- lame and all that stuff, so nothing of great importance, more for my own 'working through it in my mind' than anything else.]