Lunaris Resonation

    The eyes say words the tongue cannot pronounce.

    When one leads an existence where the tongue is silenced and the ears are deafened behind an irremovable mask, communication and observation of the outside world falls solely on the eyes –the windows to the soul. But when those eyes reflect a dead and nihilistic world, what is there to say that’s worth disrupting the silence?
    Caliginous and comfortless, Ulquiorra’s existence began in an abysm never acknowledged by the placid, unfading crescent moon beyond. Abandoned in dereliction by even a draconic world of dehumanized eidolons, his stygian, abysmal cradle of origins was an atramental pit for the endless desert’s rejected and forsaken nullities –a near-bottomless dump for trash. Dead even to the fellow dead. Within this black hole of Calcutta, born with an agonizing incompleteness, this pitiful creature existed as an outcast among orphaned monstrosities. A nullity ostracized by forsaken nullities.
    Cut off from his own kind despite the loneliness his eyes screamed in place of his imprisoned tongue, for a while he quenched his pining for companionship with quiet observation. Leucistic and small, he was painfully aware of the dramatic differences between himself and the creatures he acknowledged as his comrades despite their apparent objections. Among these inky, darksome entities –their larger forms more monstrous than his own and their bloodied teeth free to bare, rip, and grin –he was merely an alabaster runt. Deaf, he analyzed the barbaric, feral-minded behavior of these darkly comrades through sight alone with childlike inquisitiveness, never judging and aching for a niche of his own. Their actions provided him an interesting puzzle to unravel, desperately optimistic there might be reason hiding behind these meaningless series of actions in a bleak and deadened world.  
    Ripping, chewing, biting, killing......and pointing. The number of pointing claws eventually grew in number, as did the hungry glances and muted mutterings to one another his soundless world would not decipher for him. Whether running low on weaklings to gang up on, bored, or simply weary of his lingering presence, the injurious ruck decided to expunge him from existence. Teeth gleaming and eyes coruscating, the umbral mass encircled him, ravenous.
    Mute and deaf –and now betrayed –, Ulquiorra could do nothing more than bear witness to their hungry gathering, sealed lips prohibited from uttering protest or defense against the injustice. Mute and deaf –isolated from a world not even his touch could feel. He had observed their cannibalistic audacities –the tearing, the chewing, the devouring. Now the behavior he had marveled over was directed towards him. And the only protest he could communicate was through his silent eyes flabbergasted by betrayal.
    Shredding, slashing, ripping, tearing. The corpses piled higher and higher still. Black on black on black and splattered with red. The vivid color almost seemed to burn the darksome abyss. Like trash heaps in a dump, they gathered around until the silence his deaf ears perceived was genuine. His cadaverous body speckled by crimson from clawed, bare feet to cephalic horns, Ulquiorra stood as a bloodied phantom in a graveyard. His void domain. The glances with which he spanned his conquered comrades didn’t meet him with the slightest trace of compunction, however. Obdurate, he felt nothing. No pity. No satisfaction. Not even hatred. Just the burning intensity of nothingness lusting to be filled. Painful –agonizing –and numb all at once. It felt like a fire in his hollow hole was licking ravenously against the walls of the stinging, desensitizing ice that had encased it. Conflicting, yet harmonizing at his expense as a cursed paradox. It was never this inky black parade of horribles he came into existence among or their companionship that that tortured fire hungered for, he came to realize. There was no deeper meaning behind their mannerisms. Nothing to suggest they sought something more than mindless violence and prey for their endless hunger.  There existed no end to the cycle, and there existed nothing in the cycle that embodied any rhyme or reason. Just a purposeless void.
    This meaningless, blood-thirsty abyss wasn’t what his eyes wished to reflect. They wanted to reflect something he couldn’t name. Something his existence lacked, yet could match what his eyes resonated deeper down. A reflection that was part of him, yet he was born without. The other side of a looking glass. He felt his eyes had only one end, its counterpart hidden away somewhere as a speck of light in this echo of a cannibalistic world.
    Blood-stained by mindless creatures in a mindless world –tortured by his incompleteness –he abandoned his abyss of corpses, climbing to the endless, barren desert above. It was the reverberation of a silenced symphony of agonized cries from some unspeakable past now numbed into a state of dehumanized placidness. Traces of that horrific angst still whispered throughout this empty world and its crushing density of nothingness. The pale sea of sand was all too eager to forget, but the lamenting crescent moon still mourned over its empty expanse of sky, a lonely creature trying to merge with its mask of detachment to expunge its silent weeping beneath. Just like him, it was an incomplete entity numbed by the lack of sustenance this world appeared incapable of giving it. Its resonance went unrequited by the silent world below.
    He longed to feel. Something. He lusted for the polar opposite of what these listless sands and scattered, relucent objects reflected in his eyes. The thought of his uncertain fate of wandering perpetually as some incomplete, purgatory phantasm fueled his dysphoria. Walking, walking, walking. He was as the living dead –not complete enough to be living nor placid enough to be dead –condemned to fruitless noctivagation. Companionless and alone. There was nothing –no one –to alleviate his despair. There was no emotion here. There was nothing that could awaken what he could not contrive a name for. Nothing to make him feel. Try as he might, he could not feel or find anything to feel for. And the dissatisfied numbness hurt. It hurt with an abstruse pain he couldn’t describe, deep inside his very core in a place he couldn’t identify. And it confounded him. Try as he might, he couldn’t will it away or find its cure. He was void like the pit his existence began in, and within this dry, forsaken desert, there was no rain from the empty sky to fill his lonesome gap.
    Searching, searching, and searching. Damned to restlessness and despair, Ulquiorra trudged endlessly on, his core of being starting to resonate the emptiness his search rewarded him with more and more with the passing time in this atemporal realm. He was becoming exceedingly more like the moon above him, which appeared to make it grin to him like some creature twisted into quiet insanity by its own agony. Never truly alive or dead to begin with, he simply existed. Nothing more. The reason he sought behind this eluded his sight. Just as there was nothing to him but his eyes, there was nothing to this world but what his searching eyes could physically perceive. Nothing but concrete, material things –even the entities that inhabited this cursed limbo of a world had nothing to them past what could be observed by sight.
    Did the nameless, sentimental thing he sought so obsessively for even have an existence in this strictly materialistic world of the walking dead? That missing fragment his emptiness sought  –that his eyes lusted to echo back in their reflection –like some oasis breaking the nihilistic monotony of the shiftless desert now seemed more like an ignis fatuus designed to torture him into becoming a timeless vagrant wandering this world until either he or eternity ended one. That indescribable thing Ulquiorra pined so obsessively for became a detestable curse his uncomforted emptiness could no longer yearn to grasp. It had been in reality, he decided, a delusive mirage cast by a sadistic, tormented moon’s false promises. Nothing in this world had ever existed beyond what his sight could perceive. This world had no color. No emotion. No meaning...That was the cruel, simplistic reality. Struggling naively against its crushing truth was too suffocating. What was there to struggle against? Nothing.
    Born with nothing, as nothing, in nothingness. There was nothing to him but his eyes. No smell. No sound. No touch. Not even a voice. Or any emotion he had desperately longed to feel. All his eyes have ever reflected in all his wandering and searching was nothingness. Therefore he, too, was nothing. Unable to interact with the shiftless, empty world that surrounded him. Yes, Ulquiorra decided, he was the perfect embodiment of the nullity this world reflected in his eyes. Like a mirror, he would become what his eyes reflected. All that they observed held no meaning, so he, too, lead a meaningless existence. Just like the moon. Just like the sands. Even more so than the hollows he killed in the pit.
    After he came upon this realization –this new enlightenment –he encountered something enrapturing. Never had his eyes been captivated before. What he stumbled upon soothed his restlessness in a way nothing else could. Just like him, this labyrinthine tangle of pure nothingness could not interact with the world around it. It was the perfect symbol of nihility –the very personification of what true nothingness is and should be. Entrancing in its unblemished nullity and simplicity, this was the place of origins for its dendrite kin scattered about the expanse of the desert. Its many hyaline branches, just as colorless as himself, phosphoresced in the weeping moonlight –a soundless but sirenic symphony. His sanctuary. His oasis, resonating beautifully with his nihilistic core. A nest designed just for him and him alone. His missing fragment. In this ultimate nothingness he was complete.
    Ulquiorra submerged himself into his vast, Elysian counterpart, longing to meld with its state of being. This was his nirvana –to become a pinnacle of unfeeling nothingness just like the tangled mass. Fragments of his mask shattered the deeper in he went. His consciousness slipped into a great void calling so sweetly from within him. He gave to it without hesitation his sight, his mind, his very being. The world outside held no meaning. He could neither consider himself alive nor dead. Here, in this void –this blessed comatose –, all that restlessness and torment dissipated into blissful nothing.
    If such a thing as happiness exists in this world, he surmised, it should be something that resembles the limitless nothingness. Nihility is having nothing, and having nothing to lose. If that isn’t happiness, what is?
    And so he went with all willingness into that void, cradled by the great, dendrite mass of crystalline branches. It was all the companionship he fathomed he’d ever need. Even when the world eventually came back into focus and he emerged from his phosphorescent cocoon as the pinnacle of nihility, his mind never truly left the void and he never truly awakened. Not, at least, until his eyes saw the world of the living’s sun for the first time and the coveted treasure beneath it.

    The eyes say words the tongue cannot pronounce.
    But when those eyes become disconnected from the soul, have they anything left to say? Or do they become mute in place of the unsealed tongue? Drained of life by the moon’s lonely resonance, they become blinded and overwhelmed when exposed to the sun.