Erich hovered just beyond the wards he’d found, head canted to the side and eyes narrowed; whoever lived here on the edge of Seireitei had quite an impressive schema. If he could manage to slip through those defenses, he would have a relatively safe place to hide and heal the young Quincy.

He closed his eyes to get a clearer image of the schema, then began to carefully weave an opening with his mana, inserting himself into the protections. The moment he had a gap, he folded his wings and dropped, settling on the ground near a few trees.

Erich lifted his head and scanned the area, noting the house in the distance. He couldn’t sense anyone within the wards, however; it seemed as if he was alone for the moment.

(Good. Time to take advantage of that breathing room.)

Setting the boy on the ground, Erich glanced around once more, then let his draconic form shimmer and fade away, replaced by his more compact, anthropomorphic war-form. Another thought brought up a mage-shield around them for added protection.

“Let’s see what we have here,” Erich murmured, crouching next to the sleeping boy and resting a paw on the boy’s chest. He reached out with his senses, checking the extent of the damage, and breathed a sigh of relief; he’d reached the boy in time, it wasn’t yet too late to easily heal.

Erich set to work, spinning out thin threads of mingled reiatsu and mana that sank into the boy’s body. He ignored the signs of damage and strain; time and care would heal those wounds, and he was no healer to urge it along. Instead, he focused on what he could handle: the block beginning to form around the boy’s soul. Allowed to harden, it would cut him off from all but the barest traces of power until his body was strong enough to wear away the block.

And even then, Erich had known Quincy who never quite recovered their strength. Never regained — or gained — their ability to transform.

(He’d carefully looked away when they put on the glove once more. Said nothing when they never came back.)

(Sometimes, being Clan Head meant knowing when he could do nothing to help.)

He would not allow that fate to befall this young Quincy. Would not allow the boy to potentially lose his heritage like that.

Erich brought his strength to bear and the forming block shattered like glass under his power. His mana dissolved the fragments before they could spread to cause problems, then settled around the boy’s soul in turn. A block, but a kinder one. One Erich set to slowly dissolved over the next few days, as the boy’s body healed from the strain put upon it.

He swept his power through the boy’s body once more, checking to be sure there was nothing else that stood out. But beyond signs of stress and intense training, everything seemed fine.

Relieved, Erich pulled his senses back and straightened up, tail swaying contentedly. He’d need to double check in a few days, but he doubted the boy would lose his powers or his heritage.

“Incredible,” a voice breathed.

Erich darted to his feet, wings mantled and lips curling back in a snarl. “Shinigami,” he growled.

A man stood just beyond his shield, wearing the traditional Shinigami garb and with a blade at his hip. His long white hair hung free in a blatant sign of danger; only the skilled could afford such long hair, much less to keep it unbound. Even his mate Alexis had kept her human locks bound in a braid whenever she fought as a human.

The man raised his hands in faux surrender and took a single step back. “Peace, Great One. I mean neither you nor the boy harm.”

Erich growled and snapped his jaws closed on empty air, the blatant threat winning him another retreating step from the Shinigami. “Then go.”

“Please, at least hear me out, Great One,” the man said, tone gentle. “I am Ukitake Jyuushiro, the owner of these lands, and the Captain of the Shinigami who is to be executed. Who they—” he indicated the unconscious boy at Erich’s feet, then flicked a hand towards Seireitei— “are trying to rescue.”

He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head, examining the Shinigami more closely. He couldn’t scent any fear from the man, nor the odd pile of scents that humans — and Shinigami — tended to smell of while lying. “What does that matter?” he asked, though he suspected he knew.

(He knew how it was, to have his hands bound by rules and regulations. To have to work within a system that restricted his actions and punished him for a truth that he knew but others would not accept.)

“They are doing what I cannot,” Ukitake admitted easily enough. “And until just now, the invasion was chaotic but not deadly—”

Erich growled and let tongues of blue-white flame spill between his sharp teeth. Ukitake’s eyes widened and he took another step back, the first acrid traces of fear leaking into his scent.

“That monster earned his death,” Erich rumbled, rustling his wings and digging his hind-claws into the ground. “He threatened mine, a hatchling too young to change without aid. A hatchling I found in his war-form!”

Ukitake swallowed and visibly gathered himself. There was a sick understanding in his eyes; he knew what Erich meant, understood the weight of what had happened.

Understood Erich’s restraint.

(Understood how thin a line he was walking, speaking with a Dragon who had not completely Destroyed that which had threatened a claimed hatchling.)

“He’s your son, then?” Ukitake asked, then frowned in puzzlement when Erich shook his head. “I… see. But he’s yours— so the others..?”

“His,” Erich said. He let his flames die and his wings relax, then tipped his muzzle into the air and scented, searching for other hidden Shinigami. Not that they could easily reach him through the barrier that remained around him, but he’d rather not be surprised.

Ukitake appeared to be alone, though.

(Foolish Shinigami.)

(Foolish or confident, and both as dangerous as the other.)

“I’m clearly missing something,” Ukitake murmured.

Erich snorted. “You are.” He wasn’t about to get into the nuances of hoarding with a Shinigami. “Is it so strange that a Dragon might care for those who are not Dragons?”

“Ah, no, no, that’s not what I meant to imply, I’m sorry.” Ukitake smiled sheepishly at him, then inclined his head in a shallow bow. “Please, forgive any insult I may have given, Great One.”

“Tch.” Erich folded his wings and gave himself a shake, ridding his body of the tightness that had begun to settle. “You never gave a clear answer, Shinigami. What is it you want?”

“I want to help you,” he answered.

Erich blinked slowly. Canted his head. Examined the Shinigami.

He must have heard wrong.

(But this was more serious than a bloodthirsty hatchling, wasn’t it? Ukitake couldn’t just aim his problem at his enemies and pray, could he.)

(His problem was entirely different.)

“You… want to help,” Erich repeated slowly. “Invaders and two Dragons, and you… want to help.”

“A collection of youths and an elder trying to protect them,” Ukitake corrected gently. “And beyond that, there is something… wrong about what is happening. It’s too quick, the verdict too strict— I cannot allow this to continue, but I need help.”

“Then gather your help amongst your kind, Shinigami.” Erich shot the man an unimpressed look. “You and your insular people have cast aside all attempts at alliances before, and yet you expect me to ignore that history now that you have a need?”

Ukitake winced and looked away. “I know,” he murmured with regret, scent shading towards shame-exhaustion-unhappiness. “I’m not… asking for much. Just… let me aid you. The youths are trying to rescue Rukia because they care for her. Let me help you — them — towards that goal.” He took a breath and looked back at Erich, shoulders squared and a stubborn edge to his stance. “I can’t ask more than a few Shinigami for aid. The more who know, the more likely it is that we’ll all suffer, and I refuse to be the cause of that.”

“At the price of your subordinate?” Erich prodded.

“I will save her alone if I must.”

Erich narrowed his eyes and let an unhappy rumble build in his chest. The idea of working with a Shinigami was unthinkable. He was a Dragon, his people hunted down and slaughtered for the crime of being Dragons, from Elders down to newborns. No mercy. No quarter.

And here was a Shinigami, one of his people’s killers, asking to help? Asking him to work with him? For a goal the Shinigami wanted and Erich could not care less about?

(But the boy’s hoard did, and thus the boy did as well.)

(He would not see the boy or his hoard in pain if he could help it.)

He snapped angrily at the air, instincts and gut reaction at war with the Human strategy pounded into his head. He wanted to say no, to declare that he and the others could do this without aid. Yet the war he’d lived through said otherwise; it was always better to have a man on the inside. To have intel and supplies and aid from a native, even if that aid was potentially suspect.

So long as he kept his head, the chances of an ambush or betrayal were slim.

(Ukitake smelled like the officers he used to know, resolved and determined to follow through.)

“Fine,” he spat, tail lashing the air in his fury. “But if you betray me — betray us — I will not stop at simply killing you, Shinigami.”

“I understand,” Ukitake said, inclining his head. “Thank you for giving me this chance, Great One.”

“Tch, don’t thank me yet,” Erich muttered. “And stop calling me that. It means something specific to my kind and I don’t qualify. If you must call me something, you may use Rerugen.”

“Thank you, Rerugen-san. Is there anything..?”

He grimaced and tilted his head to examine the boy at his feet, hoping that they hadn’t woken him from his rest just yet. The boy needed sleep more than anything else, and he also didn’t need to witness Erich’s fury any more than he already had. “Food, if you can. And perhaps blankets.”

Ukitake nodded in agreement. “I’ll bring those out to you in a moment.”

Erich watched the Shinigami dart off, then carefully settled into a crouch at the boy’s side. He would give the man a chance.

(But only one.)