Erich swears silently and tucks himself deeper into the tree line, hoping that neither the Hollow he’s been stalking nor the Shinigami who suddenly appeared had seen him; he’s spent days setting up magical traps to lure the damn thing into so he could kill it without drawing undue attention, and now a Shinigami decides to show up? Now?!

He grips his bow tighter and grits his teeth, driving his senses to the limit as he watches the combat; if days of effort is going to go to waste, he might as well learn something from it, even if that something is yet another attempt at figuring out how Shinigami purify Hollows instead of destroying them entirely.

(Decades in the Rukongai and this is only the third time he’s seen a Shinigami.)

(Which, considering how many Hollows he’s come across in that time, is an absolutely terrible ratio.)

The Hollow cackles, the sound grating across Erich’s senses, and lunges for the white-haired Shinigami, fanged mouth gaping and a Cero already gleaming between its jaws. The Shinigami curses. Dodges aside as the cero rips past him. Slashes with his blade only for the Hollow’s claws to block it with a ringing clang.

They fight, tearing up the clearing and the edges of the forest around them, and blood starts to run. It drips down the Hollow’s front, matting down the shadowy fur that makes up the beast’s body, but it isn’t the only one wounded. Blood stains the Shinigami’s white coat, running from a small slash on the man’s arm that Erich is certain shouldn’t be bleeding that much, or that quickly.

It sets his teeth on edge. There’s something wrong about the whole combat, about the way the Hollow snickers, ducking and weaving away from the Shinigami’s blade now that it’s landed a single blow.

“That all you got?” the Hollow taunts, then cackles like a hyena as the Shinigami frowns and lunges for it again. “Slow, slow, slow! I was promised a challenge!”

The Shinigami, Erich realizes with a sinking heart, is slowing down. Not much, not yet, but… it’s far too soon. He can feel the Shinigami’s strength pressing down on him just by proximity, and there’s no way a few bare minutes of combat is enough to exhaust someone that powerful. But…

He can feel it. Can see it. Can see the way the Shinigami’s power is starting to waver, rising and falling like waves against the shoreline, crash-crash-crashing against the man’s control until he’s wavering. He curses and stumbles back, one hand pressed to the small wound and the other gripping his katana tight and his expression…

Erich knows that expression. Knows the tight-lipped, pinched look creeping across the man’s face as he stares the Hollow down.

(The Shinigami is at his limit.)

Erich flexes his free hand and takes a deep breath, moving a few careful steps to one side in order to get a better view and— freezes.

There’s another Shinigami in the clearing. He’s just standing there, watching the fight with a curious gaze, even as the first Shinigami’s legs give out and he crumples to the ground. In fact, the first Shinigami doesn’t even glance over at him, despite the second standing in plain view of both combatants. The Hollow doesn’t either, and Erich doesn’t know what to feel about that, because it should, shouldn’t it? If only to go after the next strongest prey in the area?

But the second Shinigami does nothing, just adjusts his glasses and hums as he watches the Hollow stalk towards the Shinigami that fell, clearly intending to just let his companion die, and Erich… can’t.

He can’t.

(He shouldn’t!)

The callousness of the second Shinigami makes bile rise in Erich’s throat; he hates Shinigami, fears them, but this— this—!

He drops his bow — wooden, useless — and lunges from cover. Hardens reishi around his left arm and shoulder and slams into the Hollow’s side, toppling it before it can reach the fallen Shinigami.

(He refuses to stand by while someone, anyone, dies!)

Before he can think better of it, he crouches. Snatches up the Shinigami’s blade with a murmured apology. Hisses as the blade bites, its power snapping at his own like shark out for blood. Hardens his hand and hardens his heart and snarls, “If you don’t want your wielder to die, work with me!”

A flicker — surprise-wariness-disbelief — and then… acceptance, grudging through it may be.

(He’ll take what he can get.)

“Oh? How fascinating,” the second Shinigami says, eyes sharp with something as they sweep across Erich from head to toe. “A fitting second test, I suppose.”

Erich stiffens at the man’s words. “Second test?” he snarls even as the Hollow clambers back to its feet and gives itself a shake. It fixes him with bright amber eyes, jaw gaping in a vicious grin, and he reinforces the reishi around his arm and shoulder, strengthening and widening the shield he’d already built.

“Of Blackclaw’s poison,” the Shinigami tells him with a creepy little smirk. “I’ve already seen its effectiveness against one of the most powerful Shinigami in Seireitei, and since you’ve been so kind as to offer yourself up, I’m curious to see how it fares against a Quincy.”

“What is wrong with you?” Erich bites out as he ducks under the Hollow’s initial swipe and then steps in, clearly surprising the damn thing as it rears back and tries to kick him. He braces. Takes the blow on his reishi shield. Slams his shield up and brings the Shinigami’s blade across and—

The Hollow howls as it topples backwards. Tries to stand. Crumples as its right leg gives way.

“Wrong? I’m surprised you’d say that,” the second Shinigami says, apparently unconcerned by the damage Erich’s done to the Hollow— done to his Hollow? “I’m just cleaning up the trash polluting Seireitei, after all. What’s the death of one Shinigami against what they’ve done to your people?”

Erich snorts at that and shoots the second Shinigami a disdainful look. “At least they faced my people head on.”

“Head on?” the Shinigami scoffs and adjusts his glasses. “Are you ignoring all the assassinations that I know happened?”

“No.” Erich growls and wrenches his attention away from the damn Shinigami and back onto his active enemy, cursing mentally as the thing stands back up, unsteady but clearly healed from the wound he inflicted upon it. “They still did it themselves, and didn’t pretend otherwise,” he says as he shifts his stance and casts a small magic-trap right in front of the thing’s feet. “Meanwhile, you’re standing there wearing their own uniform and watching as a Hollow takes down one of your own.”

“Prey talks too much!” the Hollow shrieks as it lunges for him, claws outstretched and jaw gaping, a cero beginning to form—

Only for it trip, foot caught in the trap Erich just cast. It topples towards him, fury in every line of its body, and reaches-reaches-reaches—

Erich sidesteps its claws. Slams it into the ground with another shield bash. Brings the Shinigami’s blade up and offers it his power. Offers it revenge. Prays that this will work, that the Hollow will die, that he won’t die, and—

Brings the Shinigami’s blade down upon the Hollow’s bone mask.

It shatters with a crack, loud like a gunshot, and the Hollow screams. Thrashes. Reaches for him with glittering claws and crazed eyes and a deep, abiding hatred that Erich understands and then it—

Fades.

Its body breaks down into glimmering wisps that trail away, like glints of light off darting fish.

“Unfortunate,” is the second Shinigami’s pronouncement, and when Erich glances back at him he’s frowning, one hand fiddling with his glasses and the other settled atop the hilt of his blade. “I suppose once the truth is known, it’s relatively easy to avoid the poison. I’ll need to adjust for that in my next experiment.”

“Your next experiment?” Erich can’t help but demand, turning to face the Shinigami as he does.

“Well, yes,” the Shinigami replies, honest confusion in his voice as he draws his blade. “This one was only a partial success. Even if the chances of another Quincy getting involved are infinitesimal, Blackclaw still failed to take you out, and I’ll need to account for that. I can’t always expect to catch my opponents alone, as you’ve clearly demonstrated.” The man hums thoughtfully as he starts to advance towards Erich. “Perhaps a pack of Hollows? I’ve tried singletons several times now, and each time they tend to fall. A pack should allow for easier victories without quite as many chances for failure.”

Erich purses his lips and shifts his stance again, making sure he’s between the advancing Shinigami and the one on the ground behind him. “Why, exactly, are you telling me this?”

“Oh, I’m not. Not really,” the Shinigami says idly. “Merely… talking aloud. You see, I really can’t have you roaming around Soul Society knowing what I’m up to,” he adds with a placid smile, pulling something small and glowing from his robes. “Your people don’t like Shinigami, but you stepped in to defend one once already. I can’t take the risk that you’ll try to interfere further, so instead, I’ll see if a Quincy’s power is what my hogyoku is missing to become complete.”

Erich doesn’t bother to ask what the man means, for he can already feel the little stone tugging greedily at the edges of his reiatsu. He tucks as much of his strength away as he can. Drags his selkie powers as close to the fore as he can without putting his skin on. Hisses as even that begins to be gnawed on, his very nature being pried at by something the size of a goddamn marble being held in the hand of an asshole Shinigami…!

“Oh? Fascinating,” the man muses, staring in awe at the glowing stone as it flickers with colors, changing from a bluish-purple to something closer to the midnight depths of the ocean.

Before the man can say anything else, Erich lunges, purposefully slow, the downed Shinigami’s blade held poised to strike and a flicker of magic setting a trap in front of the man just like he’d done with the Hollow.

(He can’t take any chances, not now, not against whatever this ‘hogyoku’ is.)

(Which means he can’t take any chances against this Shinigami, either.)

The man scoffs, blade rising to casually block Erich’s strike, and the downed Shinigami’s blade shivers in his grip. Not physically, but almost as if whatever spirit is inhabiting it… didn’t expect the block? Even though Erich was practically baiting it out, with how he attacked?

Erich’s gaze darts to where their blades are crossed, and something… teases at the edge of his vision. Like threads, or tiny filaments, nearly invisible but definitely there, spinning from the asshole’s blade to coil around the downed Shinigami’s blade, and then behind him, undoubtedly to the downed Shinigami himself.

(Is that why the first Shinigami never saw the asshole watching him fight?)

(He has no idea how it works, but he can’t let those threads bind him.)

“Is that all you have left?” the asshole asks, sounding almost disappointed as he breaks their blade-lock and steps aside, pointedly moving around the trap Erich had set. “Well, I suppose fighting with a blade as powerful as Ukitake-taicho’s would be a bit much for someone like you.”

Erich arches an eyebrow at the comment. “Am I supposed to know who that is?” he asks, even as he turns to follow, sweeping the borrowed blade up and then around the block that the asshole tries, but instead of stepping in the way the asshole seems to expect him to, he steps back.

The asshole, of course, follows him, his blade aiming for Erich’s chest and his gaze bored and his stance nonchalant—

His foot squelches as it comes down, ground turning to slippery mud as Erich pours magic into it despite the way the hogyoku is gnawing at his strength. Surprise flickers across the asshole’s face as his ankle turns. As he starts to fall. As Erich sweeps his borrowed blade in, knocking the asshole’s arm wide, and then slams a set of conjured claws deep into the man’s chest.

(He can’t afford to leave blade wounds on the asshole’s body, even if he intends to hide it somewhere.)

(Better to make it look like a Hollow got the man.)

The man coughs as he crumples, blood bubbling over his lips as he starts to wheeze. The look of sheer disbelief in the asshole’s gaze is cathartic, as Erich coats his leg in hardened reishi and kicks the man onto his back. The blade and the stone go tumbling from the man’s loosened grip, and something… changes. The sensation of teeth gnawing at his being fades, and the asshole’s body shudders once, twice, and then—

Dissolves?

Erich steps back, gripping his borrowed blade tightly as violet colored power rushes across the small gap and is absorbed into the little glowing stone, erasing all traces of the asshole’s existence but for his outfit and his sword.

“What the fuck,” Erich breathes out as he reaches up to rub at his eyes, then squints at the pile of discarded clothing and the gleaming stone that just ate its owner. “Don’t suppose you know what’s going on?” he asks the borrowed blade in his hand, then huffs a laugh when all he gets back is a barrage of confusion. “Yeah, didn’t think so. Fuck. Okay…” He turns slightly to eye the downed Shinigami, then the now-quiescent stone. “Think your wielder can last a bit longer?” he asks the blade, wondering if the thing can actually understand him. “I… really don’t want to leave whatever that is laying around like that, and I don’t trust it enough to try and pick it up.”

The blade hums in his hand, clearly wavering, and then he gets the sensation of hurry it up from the thing.

He approaches the softly glowing stone and carefully kneels near it, setting the borrowed blade aside. Except… now that he’s staring right at it, he has no idea what to even do about it; he doesn’t want to leave it where it fell, of course, but the memory of teeth is too vividly present to want to try and touch it with hands or powers. He supposes he could wrap the asshole’s clothes around it, but… clothing didn’t exactly keep the man safe from it, now did it?

Something pokes at him and, startled, he casts a glance at the borrowed blade, expecting that it wants his attention for some reason, but—

A welter of memories-thoughts-feelings sweeps through him like a tsunami, scouring him raw and leaving him aching with sea-longing.

(It’s been so long, so, so long…)

(The ocean is so far away, and so desolate here in this afterlife.)

(He could shift on land but… a seal is not meant to live its life only on land, and he cannot live forever in the freshwater that runs strong and clear in the rivers and lakes of this land.)

(He gives in, some days, but every time he emerges shaking and exhausted and starving, soul barely soothed and body driven to its limits…)

Something… twists. The stone glows, bright-bright-brighter, until he’s forced to lean back and shade his eyes from the light. The sealskin at his waist shivers and twitches, blue-violet power lingering over it like a shroud, and he snarls, low and vicious. Lunges. Closes his hand around the stone and brings his power to bear and it—

Snaps. Dissolves like sea-ice in his hand, achingly cold and bitingly sharp, and then the wolf skin he wears over his back shivers like his sealskin did, and he can feel it, can sense it, knows it the way he’s always known his sealskin and it… it doesn’t make sense! He’s a selkie — is still a selkie! — so why does it feel like he can pull the wolf skin on like his sealskin?

Erich blinks the spots from his eyes and stares down at his empty hands in dismay: whatever the hogyoku has done to him, it is beyond his grasp now. He smooths a hand down his sealskin, feeling the lingering touch of the stone’s power, and swallows at the vast uncertainty before him. He’s been changed against his will, something done to his sealskin that he can’t decipher at the moment, and… and he doesn’t even want to think about the way the wolf skin hangs heavy and powerful down his back when it had previously just been a normal tanned hide that he’d fashioned into a simple cape.

A cautious tendril reaches out to him, and this time when he turns his numb gaze to the downed Shinigami’s blade, it prods him a second time. Concern-worry-anxiousness it sends him, somehow managing to encompass both him and its own wielder.

It’s enough to shake Erich from his shock, and he grabs the blade and forces himself to his feet with a grunt. “Right. Thanks,” he tells it as he turns back to the downed Shinigami, who is…

Currently conscious and definitely watching him, Erich realizes with a start. The man’s eyes are a deep green, and surprisingly clear given how weak the man seems, laying on his side near where he fell, one hand clamped over the wound on his arm and not even trying to sit up.

Erich approaches, examining the man as he does, and frowns at what he both sees and senses from him; the Shinigami’s face is pale and strands of his white hair are stuck to his forehead, and his reiatsu presence is nearly non-existent, despite the force of it weighing on his shoulders like an ocean at the start of the fight. And some of it is probably just good control, but… all of it?

(Fear of retaliation aside, he can’t help but be glad he killed the asshole.)

(Whatever was in that Hollow’s poison…)

The Shinigami’s gaze darts to the blade in Erich’s hand and then back up to him, and the look in his green, green eyes makes Erich pause. Makes him take a single step back, because that’s… that’s resignation, like he expects Erich to strike him down with his own weapon, and he… he…

Erich scowls and looks away, swallowing back bile as he pointedly tucks the Shinigami’s blade through his belt and pulls a scrap of cloth from one of his pouches in order to wipe the sweat from his hands. That reaction makes sense, he knows it does, would probably be feeling it himself if he was wounded and weakened and at the mercy of someone who just killed another Quincy in front of him, but that understanding doesn’t make it any easier to face. Especially since the man is otherwise quiet, not begging or trying to bargain or even talk him down, like he knows it’s pointless even though Erich came to his defense against the Hollow…!

“Let me see that wound,” Erich tries to ask once he has himself under control again, though it comes out gruffer and more demanding than he wanted.

Silence is his only answer, and, concerned that the man has passed out, Erich looks back at the Shinigami— only to stiffen at the consideration in the man’s gaze. He’s being evaluated against some unknown scale, he can tell he is, and it makes his shoulders pull back and his chin lift into something closer to the textbook perfect military posture he once clung to.

“Alright,” the man says after a moment longer. “It… won’t stop bleeding,” he admits as Erich slowly approaches, then tilts his head towards the ground and brings his good shoulder up in order to cough into his upper arm. It’s a rough cough, not wet exactly, but harsh. Strong enough to shake the man’s shoulders and make his hand spasm over the wound, rivulets of blood slipping between his fingers.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Erich can’t help but grumble as he kneels beside the man and gently tugs the man’s hand away from the wound. “A bit strange for a poison to have such different effects, but I suppose if it was engineered somehow…” he murmurs to himself as he lifts the man’s arm and peers at the wound itself through the layers of cloth.

Closer examination proves his gut right: it definitely shouldn’t be bleeding as much as it is. It’s a shallow thing the width of the man’s upper arm, and all of Erich’s experience tells him it should have clotted — or at least slowed down — by now.

“The cough is separate,” the Shinigami corrects him, then gives a tight-lipped smile as Erich casts a startled look at him. “I’ve been sick all my life.”

Erich narrows his eyes at the man, then huffs in exasperation and turns his attention back to the wound. He starts to roll the man’s sleeve up, for once pleased at how loose the normal attire is here in this part of the afterlife, then has to pause as the cloth starts to stick, glued to the man’s skin with tacky, half-dried blood.

“You can just cut it,” the Shinigami says, as if the suggestion isn’t entirely ridiculous.

“I don’t know what you’re used to, but I’m not cutting perfectly serviceable clothing when there’s no reason to,” Erich grumbles at the man as he fishes out his water-skin and tugs the top open. It’s only half full, but he’s mostly using it as a prop for his magic anyway, so how full it is doesn’t matter. “Just cut it. Ridiculous. Clearly you’ve never had to worry about clothing,” he says in exasperation as he tips the water-skin over and twists his magic into a loose spell, calling forth clean, pure water to soak the man’s arm.

Soft laughter makes him startle, fumbling the water-skin and his grip on the man’s sleeve, and he looks up to see warmth in the man’s gaze, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement and his mouth softened into a small smile. He… maybe stares for a moment longer than he should, before tearing his gaze away and back to what he should be looking at.

(What… what is he doing?)

(This is a Shinigami!)

(Focus!)

Erich carefully works the stuck fabric free and folds it back around the man’s shoulder, exposing the wound completely. He leans in closer, adjusting his position so the sun isn’t in the way quite as much, and frowns at the sight of debris in the wound; expected, given the layers of clothing the man is wearing, but not exactly something he’s looking forward to trying to deal with without a proper medical kit. Though… he’s probably revealed himself as other enough at this point, so what’s one more thing?

“Sorry, this will sting,” he warns the man as he sets his water-skin aside and lifts the man’s arm a bit, pressing the thumb of his right hand below the wound and his pointer and middle fingers above it and focuses—

His magic twists, scouring across his hands and then across the wound, leaving his own skin tingling and making the Shinigami’s breath hiss through his teeth. It’s not exactly a spell, not a proper one, but it’s something he was forced to perfect out here if he wanted to survive with minimal human contact; wounds are dangerous, especially without modern medicine, and being able to purify and sterilize anything, including the wound itself, has likely saved his life more than once.

(He just wishes it didn’t feel like scrubbing his skin off with a pumice stone, but he’ll take survival over comfort any day.)

“You weren’t kidding,” the man says a touch breathlessly, then tips his head into his shoulder again as another cough wracks through his body.

Erich grimaces and tries sending a tendril of reiatsu into the man in an effort to soothe the cough, only to wince at how depleted the Shinigami is. There’s practically nothing left in him, just a void, and the bits of reiatsu Erich does share are just as quickly whisked away, cycling through the Shinigami’s body in an effort to do… something. Heal him, perhaps, or purge the poison, but…

He frowns. Sends another quick thread of reiatsu into the man, not to prop up the Shinigami’s reserves this time but to observe, and—

“Stop trying to heal yourself,” Erich orders sharply. “It’s just making things worse. Whatever that poison is, it’s feeding on your own strength.”

“Wonderful,” the Shinigami bites out, dismay clear in his voice, but Erich can tell he’s not being ignored. Already he can feel the man pulling as much of his remaining strength back as he’s able to, but… it’s not enough to make a real difference, Erich suspects.

Erich stares blankly at the still-bleeding wound, feeling the way the Shinigami’s arm is starting to tremble in his grip, and forces himself to acknowledge how out of his depth he is. Forces himself to accept that he might be too late, that no matter how lucid the man is right now, he might not be able to do anything to fix this.

And then he takes a deep breath and digs into his supply pouch once again, pulling out a wad of cloth that he absently scours clean and presses firmly to the man’s wound. If he were an ordinary soul, or even just a Quincy, this is all he would be able to do for the man: clean and bandage the wound, try to keep his reserves filled enough to last through the entire course of the poison, try to feed him, try-try-try—

“Thank you,” the man murmurs, his free hand reaching up to brush against Erich’s elbow. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t,” Erich growls in return, knowing exactly where the man’s mind has gone and refusing to acknowledge it.

(He just… has to gather himself a bit.)

(He hasn’t used so much magic in front of another in decades, and he’s not looking forward to it.)

The Shinigami hums, a touch of amusement in the tone, and then says, “I’m Ukitake Jyuushiro, and my blade’s name is Sōgyo no Kotowari.”

Erich tilts his head to give the Shinigami — to give Ukitake — the blank, annoyed look the unnecessary introduction deserves.

When he continues to say nothing, Ukitake gives another soft laugh and says, “May I know the name of my beautiful savior?”

“Beautiful?” Erich repeats back in disbelief, because he knows exactly what he looks like right now, and ‘beautiful’ is not a descriptor he would ever give himself. “Is your eyesight fading, Shinigami? Me?”

Ukitake has the nerve to chuckle at that, and his free hand reaches up-up-up, fingers brushing against the rough stubble along Erich’s chin. “My ruggedly handsome savior, then,” he says, the corners of his eyes once more crinkling with amusement.

Erich twitches back before he can stop himself, knocking Ukitake’s arm away from him and trying to suppress the urge to scratch at the skin the man touched. He doesn’t like the thoughtful, knowing look the Shinigami is giving him at his reaction, nor does he like the echo of the man’s touch that lingers like a brand against his skin, sharp and warm and present even though Ukitake’s hand is once more resting on the ground.

(What the hell is wrong with him?)

“You are a nuisance,” Erich declares before the man can say anything about it. “Just… shut up for a moment and let me concentrate.”

Except before he can do anything more than start to focus on his next move, Ukitake’s hand clamps down on his lower arm and the man says, with perfect, deadly seriousness, “If the Shinigami go after you for this, find Kyoraku-taicho. He’s the Captain of the Eighth Division, and if you tell him I said to stop hiding his alcohol behind my best tea set, he’ll listen to you.”

Erich stares at the man as he processes that, then scowls and turns away again. “What part of just shut up do you not understand?” he demands. “I will be doing no such thing, because you’re going to be going back to your damn enclave of Shinigami and hopefully forgetting all about me.”

Ukitake makes a soft noise, then stiffens and tucks his head down to cough again, the sound even worse this time. Unable to really do anything for the man, Erich just… lets his right hand slip down to press against the man’s back in a useless attempt at comfort.

This time, when Ukitake lifts his head back up, his white coat is speckled with bright red blood.

Seemingly unbothered by this, Ukitake just smiles at him, warm and kind and accepting, and declares, “I will do no such thing,” with so much bright cheer that Erich reflexively scowls at him yet again.

With an annoyed huff, Erich forces his attention away from the man again and focuses in on what needs to be done; he has no proof that his magic can do anything for Ukitake just yet, so he needs to quickly figure out if it can, and then figure out if the cost will be worth it. It… probably will be, but even his quick checks have proven that Ukitake doesn’t contain a single drop of magic in his body, and the amount of magic Erich will probably need to flood his body with in order to do anything about the poison… well…

Magic can be — and often is — a poison to those without it.

Erich shakes those thoughts free — worry will get him nowhere — and instead feeds a small thread of magic into Ukitake’s body, closing his eyes to better get a sense of what he’s doing. He’s not, and has never been, a healer, but this… this isn’t exactly healing he’s aiming for.

Carefully, cautiously, he brushes his thread of magic against a trace of the poison in Ukitake’s blood, waiting for it to react, to turn on him, to devour his strength and grow stronger, but—

It does nothing. Doesn’t even react when he uses his magic to prod at it, just continues hunting down every trace of Ukitake’s reiatsu. And when he envelopes the trace of poison with his magic and crushes it… it crumbles into inert fragments without a fight.

(He can work with that.)

“I’m sorry. I’m not a healer, so this will hurt,” Erich says as he braces himself, flicking a glance down at Ukitake as he feels the pull of his magic start to crest within his body.

Ukitake’s eyes widen as the man stares up at him, and Erich tips his head away in a futile effort to hide the changes his magic is causing, forcing his eyes closed again and forcing himself to concentrate

(There’s no way to hide it, not when his skin is turning silvery and his eyes are becoming inhumanly round and the webbing between his fingers is creeping towards his fingertips.)

(With luck, the man will think it just a fever dream of his.)

(…with luck…)

He breathes a sigh, ignoring the way Ukitake’s hand on his arm tightens again, and begins to flood Ukitake’s body with his magic. He lets the sense of it fill his mind, painting a picture the way his whiskers do when he’s a seal, and makes sure to stretch his power into every inch of the man’s body—

Only to freeze, breathless-hunted-terrified, under the gaze of… of something. Something inside Ukitake’s body, coiled through the man’s chest like a strangling vine, vast and looming and deadly even as it seems to be… propping Ukitake up?

It examines him, its power trailing along and through his own, vibrating with sensations that Erich has no idea how to parse and then— then it comes down on him like a hand trapping a bug, like a larger bull seal aiming to kill, and—

It pauses there. Waits. Presses threat-question-demand into his head so firmly that Erich flinches away, tucking his chin to his chest and rounding his shoulders and making himself small-small-small—

THREAT-QUESTION-DEMAND the presence repeats, so loudly that Erich groans with the pain of it and presses a hand to his head, panting through the disorientation of the attempted communication.

(It’s enough, it’s enough!)

Ukitake’s voice filters in through the pain, but he can’t understand what the man is saying. Can barely understand the worry coating the words. Can only focus on what he intends to do, on offering up his plan — wordless and wary and fearful — in a way that he hopes the Other can understand. Can only wait, breathless with the weight of the Other’s furious regard, until finally, like the tide pulling out… it all vanishes.

He slumps, trembling and aching and panting with the relief of it. Feels something close around the back of his neck, feels himself pressed closer into whatever he’s slumped against, feels skin under his forehead and fingers threading through his hair and realizes with exhausted numbness that Ukitake is trying to offer him comfort. Him, when he’s the one currently flooding the man’s body with a power that is probably already causing him discomfort, when he’s the one who’s supposed to be ridding Ukitake of the poison…!

Erich shakes off Ukitake’s hand with a growl and pushes himself back up, ignoring the way his whole body protests the action, ignoring the way his skin sings with the memory of Ukitake’s touch—

He needs to focus. He must focus. And so he shoves his rising headache aside and concentrates, finishing his task of flooding Ukitake’s body with magic and then pauses. Listens. Feels out every hint of poison, every trace lingering in Ukitake’s blood and gathering in his organs and permeating his muscles and—

Crushes it.

It crumbles like a brittle shell beneath his power, dissolving into ashes that his magic sweeps away and draws out through the still bleeding wound. He clumsily pulls the wad of cloth away from the wound and cracks his eyes open to watch as the wound bleeds oily, disgusting black. Watches and watches and watches until the color fades, until once more bright red blood spills down Ukitake’s arm, and then draws the very last of his magic from Ukitake’s body with an exhausted sigh.

Below him, Ukitake takes a trembling breath that instantly devolves into a terrible cough that shakes his body and draws his muscles taut.

“It’s done,” Erich tries to say, then has to pause to clear his throat and scrub at his face. “It’s done,” Erich repeats more firmly, feeding a careful thread of his own spiritual power into Ukitake’s body as he does. He’s still not a healer, still can’t really do anything for the man, but… but Ukitake’s body desperately needs more reiatsu and that, at least, he can do.

“What… what did you…?” Ukitake murmurs as soon as the coughing fit passes, hazy green eyes peering up at Erich as he does.

“Destroyed the poison in your body,” Erich tells him tiredly, feeling the strain of such a massive use of power all the way down to his very bones. He settles back on his heels and fumbles at his pouches, digging out a strip of cloth to use to bind the sluggishly bleeding wound on Ukitake’s arm; it’s starting to clot now, but until Ukitake can spare the strength to properly heal himself, there’s no sense taking any risks with it. A quick pulse of magic to sanitize his hands, the wound, and the cloth, and Erich has the whole thing roughly wrapped and dealt with for the moment.

And then, before he can start second guessing himself, he slings Ukitake’s arm over his shoulder, wraps an arm around the man’s waist, and hauls them both to their feet. Or, well… staggers to their feet, his head swimming and his knees weak with the effort of it. Ukitake manages to keep them both from falling over again, just as unsteady as Erich but still somehow better able to brace them than Erich is.

“Should you really be trying to cart me around?” Ukitake asks with a touch of amusement.

Erich huffs and tips his head to look up at the man—

(Fuck, who let Ukitake get so tall?)

—with all the disgruntled exhaustion the question deserves. “Unless you’d rather pass out on the ground out here?” he asks snidely, tempted for one brief moment to just… let the man go and watch him crumple to the ground again.

But no. No, he’s spent so much energy on saving this single Shinigami already, it would be a waste to undo it all by being petty.

So instead he adjusts his grip on Ukitake and runs some careful reinforcement through his own limbs to steady himself for the trek again.

“Ah, no, but… is there no one else out here that you could ask for help…?”

Erich scoffs at the idea and takes a careful step, tugging Ukitake along as he tries to judge how stable he is. “I don’t like people,” is what he tells the Shinigami, keeping his voice hard as he says it; it’s… not entirely true, but it’s also not the worst lie he’s ever said. His selkie nature makes him suspicious and standoffish with outsiders no matter the circumstances, ever wary of his sealskin being stolen in order to force control over him, but… he’s never really disliked people.

(He never would have made it far as either a Clan Head or an officer if he did, and he retired a well respected General after all.)

He ignores the disbelieving hum that Ukitake gives in response, and doubly ignores the way he can feel the man staring at him, in favor of getting them moving in the direction of his little makeshift home. “The nearest village is two days walk away,” he finally answers a bit more truthfully, as they cross the clearing and enter the forest again. “I live by myself out here.”

“Because you don’t like people,” Ukitake repeats back at him, voice flat with something that Erich doesn’t have the energy to try parsing.

Erich gives an awkward shrug, taking care not to unbalance Ukitake as he does, and says, “It’s peaceful out here.”

“Hardly safe, though,” Ukitake replies, clearly prodding for something or other.

“Nowhere here is safe for someone like me,” Erich snaps back, angling his head to give Ukitake a hard look. “If I was thinking right, I should have let you die and just moved my home again. Don’t make me regret this lapse in judgment, Shinigami.”

Ukitake’s lips quirk up into a tired, humorless smile, and he murmurs, “I will do my best.”

Erich swallows and forces his gaze back onto the forest in front of them. He regrets his decision with every inch of his very soul, and especially regrets the sudden knowledge that their respective heights means that Ukitake’s mouth is right at eye-level.

(Fuck, he’s clearly been alone too long if he’s getting distracted by something like that!)

(Ukitake is going to gut him for his presumption and he’s going to let him just to escape the humiliation, he swears.)

“It’s not too far, at least,” he says once he’s wrangled himself back under control. “And then you can rest.”

Ukitake makes a quiet noise at that, and then asks, “And yourself…?”

Erich scoffs and shakes his head. “I’m going to be getting very little rest until you’ve pulled through the magic-sickness I’ve just thrown you headfirst into,” he admits tiredly, readjusting his grip on the man again and sending a quick, questing tendril of reiatsu into Ukitake just to check his health. “It will unfortunately present… much like a flu, with a fever, chills, heavy fatigue, and general aches and pains. It… shouldn’t make your cough worse, I don’t think. That’s… not usually a symptom of magic-sickness, at least…”

He can feel the way Ukitake stiffens at his admittance, and tenses in turn; he didn’t exactly warn the man of the consequences of his method of clearing out the poison, but… what other choice did he have? Ukitake didn’t have enough reiatsu left to try and signal someone all the way back in the Shinigami enclave, and Erich attempting it would have only attracted the wrong sort of attention. Without an actual healer, the chances of the man surviving the poison were… poor.

And maybe he should have given it up as wasted effort, maybe he should have just abandoned Ukitake to die, but… he’s so tired of death. Of standing by while people die. Of ignoring it happen in front of him—

Erich sucks in a wavering breath and carefully bites the inside corner of his lip, using the sharp pain to snap his mind away from those dangerous thought-memories-regrets once again.

(He is not caught up in the Great War anymore.)

(He hasn’t been for over sixty years, which doesn’t even count however long he’s spent here in the afterlife!)

“Are you alright…?” the damn Shinigami has the nerve to ask, voice soft and kind and understanding in a way Erich hates.

“Tired,” he growls in response, and then, before he can find the willpower to stop, lets even more words spill from his mouth, “Frustrated. Infuriated by this whole situation.” He clenches his jaw and flexes his hands, though makes sure not to dig his fingers into Ukitake too much.

“I’m sorry—”

“The fuck do you have to be sorry for?” Erich snaps before he can censor himself, feeling a dark scowl twist across his face. “Did you set yourself up to die out here in hopes of, what… flushing some random Quincy from cover? Seems like a stupid gamble if you did.”

Ukitake makes a strangled noise, and when Erich slants a glance his way the man finally breaks, breathless laughter spilling from his lips. And then—

And then he nearly collapses against Erich, another cough wracking his body and causing his muscles to spasm in a way that sends the two of them stumbling. Erich quickly yanks them sideways into a tree, bracing himself against it and then bracing Ukitake in turn, pulling the man close and doing his best to support him.

This close, with Ukitake’s face nearly tucked against his neck, Erich can feel the way Ukitake’s forehead is soaked with sweat. A quick check proves his worries right: the man is already starting to run a fever.

“Fool,” Erich murmurs as he lets go of Ukitake’s arm and carefully brings his hand around, concentrating magic in his palm and imbuing it with the power of the ocean before running it over Ukitake’s head. He needs to be careful not to let any of the magic seep into Ukitake’s body, but external magic like this will be fine; importantly, it will let him (temporarily) manage Ukitake’s fever, until he reaches his home and the supplies he keeps there.

Ukitake whines, soft and needy, and leans into his hand, body going lax against Erich’s in a way he doesn’t like; he knew magic-sickness could overtake a person quickly, but this quickly…?

It’s a dangerous sign, and evidence that Ukitake’s body is at its limit. He needs to get them back to his home now, before Ukitake gets any worse.

Erich takes a moment to rest, leaning back against the tree and staring up at the branches overhead as he gathers himself. He doesn’t bother with stealth or with trying to be subtle about his presence, just pulls on the reishi all around him, dragging it into his body and using it to fully reinforce himself and shore up his flagging strength.

And then he sweeps Ukitake up into his arms and launches forward in the fastest hirenkyaku he can manage in the forest.

(He can run and hide once the man is on the road to recovery, but for now…)

(For now, there’s no time to be hesitant.)

(Ukitake won’t die on him.)

(He won’t.)