Summer's Heir
Part Four
by Kel
Rating: PG-13/T
Summary: Aizen, even after death, leaves a legacy.
Note: Part one of an ongoing thing that started out being a short one-shot. Yeah. I know. I fail.
Additional note: Please con-crit. Really, its the only reason I posted. I need it. XD

It was cold.

It was mid-day and it was freezing. The sun was streaming in through the window and yet he found no warmth in it. He'd tried standing there, in the midst of the light, hoping it would wash away this lingering sense of wrongness he'd felt since he'd woke that morning. The night before, he'd dreamed again.

He'd been dreaming every night. Every time he slept and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shadows moving. He wasn't sure why or what or even how they moved, but they did, claws scratching and flexing and voiceless whispers drowning out whatever else he might hear. He didn't know what else was there, not anymore, and didn't know what he should be listening for. (But that wasn't true and a part of him knew that, a desperate part of him that railed against this confinement; railed against it all, wanted to fight but didn't know how, not anymore and why was he even listening to the damned darkness and not even trying.)

Chaos. All of it was chaos. Undulating darkness, shadows of specters that never existed, sounds he couldn't, and wouldn't try, to place; they were all there, all fighting for dominance in his fragmented mind. And underneath it all was a current rife with desperation and despair. Grief dominated that part of him; grief spurred on by a despair he didn't understand, but it was a part of him, just like the darkness, and held sway over him.

He stood in that shaft of sunlight, arms wrapped around himself and breath misting. The cold pricked at his skin, permeating every part of him. Shouldn't light be warm? Comforting? There was no comfort in this room. Shadows gathered in the corners, billowing outward, rolling along the floor.

He even dreamed while he was awake. Maybe he wasn't awake. Maybe he'd never woken up.

The room was gone. Instead he stood in a place where cold reigned and darkness thrived. He couldn't see through the heavy darkness, but he couldn't deny that it moved all around him. Sound he couldn't describe – and never would try – pressed in around him. Wave after wave of oppressive pressure rushed him, stealing air from his lungs. He remembered once, very young, meeting his first powerful Hollow and the sheer force of it's horrible intentions had choked him. He'd never felt that before; had plenty of times afterward. The memory had never been more clear. Maybe it was the fear. Maybe it was simply because, like then, he had no idea what to do next.

It choked him; fear or darkness or something else, he didn't know, but breath was gone and his throat was tight.

Dreaming again. He had to be dreaming again. The cold spread it's fingers through the darkness, somehow a separate entity, warring with the darkness.

Hitsugaya wanted none of it. It was his mind, his domain, and his mind, damn it all. All he wanted was peace.

Call on me.

He ducked his head, hands covering his ears. Peace. That's all he asked for. All he wanted.

Call on me and find it.

The cold encircled him and suddenly he could breathe, panting shallowly for breath. There was no light. No where here. He'd been standing in unforgiving sunlight, hadn't he? Standing there and trying to get away. Not dreaming. Not this time.

You're here for a reason.

“Get out.” There was no command in his voice, no volume. Only a hoarse whisper. He didn't want this despair. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want any of these things in his mind.

Fight for what you want.

He grit his teeth, almost wishing for the noise of the shadows to drown out the voice in the cold.

You used to know that. You used to do that.

He wouldn't. He would not fight. Let them have him and wish simply for peace. When he fought, his world crumbled. People around him suffered. He suffered.

Come on, boy!

The voice roared this time, resonating in his mind, shaking the very foundation he stood on. Screams echoed, the things in the darkness – maybe the darkness itself – recoiling and crying out against it. The noise thundered around him, roiling through the black, buffeting him from all sides. The cold receded, succumbing to the darkness and disappearing within it.

Why? Why won't you? It was quieter this time, desperate, and suddenly Hitsugaya knew where the despair came from. That bottomless current of grief and despair came from the cold. The voice held all that grief.

“I can't.”

The voice didn't answer him this time and the cold faded away. The pressure came back, closing his throat. In sudden panic, Hitsugaya blindly reached forward. The cold... The cold wasn't peace; he wanted nothing to do with that despair.

But the darkness terrified him. Choked him. Took away everything.

He wasn't that far gone.

He scrabbled for the cold, trying to push past the darkness. The cold embodied the grief and he hated the grief, but it had to be better than the fear. It was demanding, heavy, but at least it spoke to him. The darkness merely overwhelmed him. He didn't know how he did it, but he found the icy thread and pulled it back.

He'd come into the sunlight looking for comfort. He hadn't found it, but perhaps the cold could bring him something marginally better than fear. It swirled around him, tangling with the darkness and pushing it away.

Room to breathe.

It was all he needed.

Brightness invaded his vision for a moment and, then, suddenly the sunlight was back. He looked up, swallowing hard and arms wrapped around himself.

The light was still cold.

You never complained about the cold before.

He drew in a deep breath, panting hard. Grief, despair, fear, panic all welled up within him, with no explanation, no way for him to compartmentalize it, and no way for him to deal with all of it at once. In the midst of it all, there was a small glimmer of light, wavering. Maybe it was the desperation threading through it all, or maybe it was the determination of whatever part of him refused to fall into despair and fear that kept that light from withering away completely.

Whatever it was, it was too much. Far too much and Hitsugaya found himself moving before he knew why.

He didn't fight. He couldn't.

He just wanted peace. No fighting within his own mind. No grabbing onto grief to drive out fear.

No more.

This room didn't hold what he needed. He didn't know where to go but this room held nothing but those things he needed to get away from. He left the room, the door sliding too loudly along it's tracks, and staggered down the hall. It seemed the faster he wanted to move, the slower and heavier his limbs became.

“Hitsugaya-taichou.” He barely heard the words and he started when a hand settled on his shoulder. Panic welling up in him, he turned away, grasping for the cold again. Bright light flared in his vision for a moment and a strangled cry accompanied it. He swallowed hard, backing away and darting down the hallway again.

Out. He just needed out.

The reiatsu had been raw and untamed. It had pulsed, dimming uncertainly and wavering before burning brightly. A wave of icy presence had washed over Unohana and she had closed her eyes, nearly reveling in the familiarity of it. How often had she felt this, on the battlefield, or when she knew the Tenth's captain was training? It hadn't been often, but it was enough that it was familiar. The last time she'd felt that presence was in the mere moments before he disappeared, accompanied by a harsh battle cry.

She'd made a mistake, perhaps. She did not regret letting him fight it alone, or telling Isane to let him be; he needed that. Unohana fully trusted Isane, but her kind heart had gotten the better of her. One false move and Hitsugaya's already fragile mind had registered a threat. Hitsugaya disappeared in the few moments after the very unexpected kidou. Unohana sent the butterfly to Matsumoto-fukutaichou, it's message quick and perhaps unclear; she hadn't taken the time to tell her all that had happened. She cradled Isane's head carefully, fingers probing the gash along her temple.

Her lips quirked, almost sadly. Isane, when she awoke, would be more pleased that Hitsugaya had called upon kidou to protect himself than upset she'd been hurt.

She held up her hand when she felt the butterfly fluttering nearby; Matsumoto-fukutaichou had sent a message. Quickly, she sent one back, promising help, then called another. Hanatarou would be good for this one; he enjoyed going out into the field and had proven himself competent more than once. She sent the butterfly for him, carrying his orders, and turned her attention back toward Isane.

She would have a place ready for Hitsugaya when he came back. Perhaps this could be a stepping stone to better things. After a moment's thought, she sent another message, this one to Hinamori-fukutaichou. It might reassure her to know about the kidou; any search party would need to know anyway.

It was sand this time, not ice. He stood on a desolate desert plain, captain's haori whipping in the harsh wind. Sand burned his lungs and stung his skin. His hands were already scraped raw, his jaw bruised. Dried blood was crusted on his forehead, caked in his eyebrow.

It was nothing new, not to him. War did this. He fought, he was bruised. He bled. He did it all over again.

He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd been fighting with his Division. Provide cover for the Fourth to do their work; those had been his orders. He and Matsumoto had taken it seriously, even if it seemed like a mundane thing. Hell, he'd been relieved to take on a stupid mundane little guard duty, just for a little break from the reconnaissance and scouting.

Then the Espada had shown up and then Ichimaru. He remembered Matsumoto freezing and remembered moving quickly and... then it was all different. A flash of a smile, an instant of sharp pain, and nothing was the same.

And his familiar ice was replaced with the sand of Las Noches.

They approached him from all sides and he stood as strong as he was able. And he stood on a plain of sand, slowly withering away and succumbing to the darkness.

He kept moving, avoiding any and all people. Sometimes they came near, but he simply changed direction, seeking more and more desolate places. He couldn't deal with them as well as find a way to purge the emotions rolling and heaving within him.

I can bring you what you need.

Hitsugaya stumbled, a hand pressing against the side of his head. No. No, no. No. He believed nothing. Nothing had been right since he'd been pulled away. Nothing would be right. His own mind lied to him. Fighting was not the answer; he'd tried that before.

Look where it got him.

And the demons in the darkness still fought with the cold.

And... tbc. Thanks to all who have reviewed thus far.