“The night is long that never finds the day.”
Ichimaru Gin wasn’t fond of sad stories. He was no poet, and possessed no talent for writing or drawing. He did not waste his time reading, even when Aizen left a book on his desk that was meant to interest him. Famous works of literature went untouched, along with that ever-widening smirk, always tugging at his lips and masking any and all pain that throbbed within his very heart. Time heals everything, he had once been told as a child, by the very man he despised. Almost everything, he had thought to himself.
The ex-Shinigami was not one for dwelling on the past. The only way he was able to get as far as he had gotten was to let it all go; All of the pain and torment he felt in the midst of training with the toughest man he knew, and all of the nights spent shivering and almost freezing to death beside a particular blonde. He had to let it all go, all of his feelings of love and endless devotion, in order to proceed with his goals.
But there were some things that would never change. Some feelings, some agonizing emotions and memories that would never fully leave him, even in death. Even when his reiatsu weakened and faded away completely, only to be seemingly lost forever.
It’s been two years since the world went dark around him. Icy blue eyes had closed for what he thought would be the final time. The cries of the woman he cherished more than anything were the last sounds he had heard, and the last words echoing through his mind only to remain unspoken on his parted lips were ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Rangiku.’
It’s been two years since he was seemingly saved.
The world was still darker than it was ever meant to be. And although the ex-Shinigami was freed from the clutches of death, he was trapped in his own version of hell, one that consisted of empty halls of a familiar fortress, and a world of white sand that stretched on for what seemed to be forever. An empty, barren wasteland. A place he loathed with every fiber of his being. He wasn’t sure why he was there, or if he was even alive. For all Gin knew, he was a walking ghost, a figment of someone’s disturbing imagination. Or perhaps he had truly made it to hell, only to be forced to relive all of the painful memories he had pushed aside for over a hundred years, and to remember all of the people he had hurt along the way of his misguided goals.
‘The night is long that never finds the day,’ Gin murmured to no one in particular. With his arms folded behind his head as he stared up at his ceiling, sprawled out on his old worn bed, Gin thought about the quote Aizen had relayed to him so many years ago. And perhaps now, in Hueco Mundo, within the once pristine castle walls now crumbling before his very eyes, and after two long years of complete solitude and dark, empty skies…. perhaps now, Gin finally understood what it meant.
Ichimaru Gin wasn’t fond of sad stories. But every so often, he allowed himself to remember.