Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THE flat, constant light of the perpetual midday beat down clear and hot upon the dry, artificial world. He could feel its heat through the plush tent of his cloak, his neck beginning to feel uncomfortably warm within its high collar and the bunched folds of its muffler he had pushed down beneath his chin. Dry, warm winds were tousling the long lengths of his cloak and robes, stirring the long strands of his bangs about his face. Yet, the brightness of the skies overhead remained unchanging, neither darkening nor brightening like how windy noon days normally would when the winds blew clouds past the sun.

Because there was no sun in this fake world.

And the clouds overhead were merely white, streaky whorls painted on an unnaturally even, azure canopy.

The ground around him appeared gravelly and sandy, a coarse, completely barren terrain of ragged, pulverised stones.

But what he was seeing, was the complete opposite of what he was feeling — through the thin, straw soles of his waraji, his soles felt not a single ridge or depression or bump or crevice, as though he was standing upon a smooth, seamless surface.

The dichotomy of what he was seeing and what he was feeling was dissonant. Disorientating.

Surreal.

Unreal.

Which was what this place was, in the end.

[Does this mean Carrot Top is also unreal?] wondered Sōgyo.

[He must be? The boy found his Shikai here, after all,] pondered Kotowari.

[Many Shinigami trained to Shikai in benkyō heya in our history,] he reminded. [None of them ever exhibited Hol— this—] he fumbled momentarily, then sighed and finished, [Such reiatsu.]

And there it was, the problem at the heart of it all.

Ichigo-kun was as Human as Humans came. There was nothing artificial about the boy — not even the impossible nature of his powers.

Powers which were entirely natural, yet as impossible, as the panorama before him.

For five paces away from where he stood, the dry, gravelly ground suddenly split and the sharp tip of a crack in the land appeared — appeared, and widened dramatically to his left and to his right, cleaving apart to his either side in both directions forming a long, narrow gorge.

The gorge was so unnaturally steep, and extended so unnaturally straight out into the distance, with rock walls on both sides so unnaturally smooth and tapering to meet so unnaturally sharply in a thin, straight seam right at a bottom so far down, it should have been lost to shadowy depths —except that the artificial midday light was flooding steadily straight down from the highest zenith, illuminating to stark clarity the razor line far below where the valley walls finally met — that looking upon it now, was like looking upon a cut in the land left by a gargantuan slash from the strike of a titanic, unseen blade.

So nay, there was nothing artificial at all about the impossible, razor gorge — if he ignored the fact that it was created by a Zanpakutō born in an impossible reiryoku belonging to an utterly Human youth.

And there was not only one scar, but two — in the distance, the straight, razor valley was bifurcated at an angle by another similar one, as though the same titanic blade had sliced two deep, criss-crossing cuts into the land, forming the giant, cross-shaped chasm he had seen from the sky.

Tessai had cleaned them of reiatsu as thoroughly as he had cleaned the rock shaft. All evidence of the event that had so damaged the artificial land had been erased or dissipated — but not to the reikaku of an Elder.

Especially if the Elder knew what to look for.

As the he stood scouring his senses over the dizzying depths of the razor valley, merely five steps away from one tip of the cross-shaped wound splitting the land, the remnant reiatsu screamed right at him at every feather touch of his senses.

All three aspects of the reiatsu, wailing, screeching, and thundering against his senses as clearly and brightly as the light of the unending noon day beating down upon him — the unyielding will, the aggression, the sour darkness, entwining into a relentless hammering against his shields as a single, pummelling force that was part Human, part Shinigami—

And part Hollow.

Exactly the same as the reiatsu that had screamed at him from within a mere droplet left forgotten at the bottom of the rock shaft. Exactly the same — yet, also decidedly different.

There was something about the reiatsu here, exposed in this titanic, cross-shaped chasm — something which the stray droplet in the rock shaft was too minuscule to amplify to his reikaku.

Sweeping the long layers of his robes aside, he bent a knee and lowered himself down to rest upon one heel, and then, very carefully, reached a hand down and touched two fingertips to the ground.

The sand felt like fine powder, yet it looked gravelly to his eyes.

He pinched up a bit of it and sifted it between his fingertips, once more feeling only fine powder, even as his eyes observed only coarse grains sprinkle his fingers onto the ground.

As the grains fell between his fingertips, he began to understand the difference he had sensed.

A fourth reiatsu.

It belonged neither to any of the three exiled Shinigami who made their home above this place, nor to either of the two human children who frequented this underground facility.

Whose was it—

His breath caught as a force inside him bulged.

Then a sharp pressure pushed outwards against his ribcage, squeezed his lungs. His vision blurred—

And then divided. One eye saw the sandy gravel of the ground, the other blinded into black, sank into swallowing darkness—

He stopped breathing as his lungs stifled—

~ ~ ~

[Master? Master!]

[But Master is not asleep! Why is he dreaming?]

[Dreaming— nay, it does not feel like dreaming!]

[Not dreaming? What are these if not dreams?]

[Master! Can you hear us?]

[Master! Master!]

~ ~ ~

“Er, sorry to interrupt you, Ukitake-san, but is that all you’re eating?”

Bright, brown eyes were staring from a young, rugged, peach-tanned face, watching him and his plate with a sort of horrified fascination. 

Momentarily confused, he looked down at the plate in his hand, and saw that only one ball of ohagi remained.

“Ai! Where are my manners!” he apologised hurriedly, holding the plate out. “Here, you can have the last piece—”

Strong, peach-tanned hands quickly flew up and waved between them. “No, no, that’s not what I meant! I mean— Ukitake-san, you finished the whole bowl of konpeitō before they even served the ohagi!”

He glanced down at the clear, glass bowl sitting between their place settings on the table — the empty receptacle sparkled and winked merrily at him with stray bits of sugar crystals.

“Aye, I did…?” he affirmed, puzzled.

“Eating dessert before the main course?” not-Kaien pressed, eyes gone round and face incredulous.

There was nothing unusual in that. But before he could ask again, an imperious alto rose clearly over the din, “Taichō usually has his dessert first!”

Rukia was suddenly visible before their table, seemingly materialised out of the jostling sea of black-clad Shinigami.

“B-But that’s unhealthy!” exclaimed not-Kaien at her.

“What’s so unhealthy about it?” she queried, drawing quickly towards their table, bearing a large tray.

She was still very pale. Despite the resonance of her voice, and the temporary flush in her cheeks from the recent infusion of reiryoku she had received, she still looked as wan as the pale-green of the komon kimono she had changed into.

Setting down his plate of remaining ohagi — discreetly placing it within the place setting of his young Human guest — he made to rise to take her back to the Fourth.

He was stopped when a strong, warm palm fell gently upon his right thigh.

In the next moment, a sake-laced breath warmed his right ear as a dry, drawling baritone murmured low in his hearing, “Settle down. Watch.”

He stilled, and watched.

Rukia was holding herself and moving like she always did, strong and steady, striding with confidence as she drew up at the front of their long table. Her small, capable hands were bearing the tray between them with no trace of weakness — the tray was not large, but it was heavy, laden as it was with the familiar sight of two large earthen bowls covered with weighty-looking earthen lids, a bamboo ladle, and an accompanying stack of porcelain crockeries, with spoons, and a pair of silver chopsticks. Yet, he spied no tremor in her grip as her hands held either side of the tray steadily and surely.

Relief filled him.

She was far from recovered, but had clearly regained enough strength to be up and about.

“…eating all those sugar, flavourings and colouring before proper food…” not-Kaien was going on, “They’re empty calories that’ll spoil the appetite! That’s why we don’t let children eat sweets and candies before meals!”

“Are you saying Taichō is a child?” she demanded.

Brown eyes went wide, and the peach-tan of not-Kaien’s young face flushed red. “No, no, I don’t mean that!”

Ignoring their young Human guest, Rukia set her tray down on the edge of the table opposite him, and with practised ease, turned the tray around before sliding it carefully towards him, informing with a pleased bow, “Here, Taichō, your evening tonic.”

He would have thanked her, except that in a flash, a fierce expression overcame her pale face as she turned to their guest with visible annoyance.

“Do you seriously think we take such shoddy care of Taichō?” she scolded.

“Well, how would I know?” rebutted not-Kaien hotly. “You hardly talk about your home and the people in your life…”

Rukia let out an irritated sound. “Common sense! I told you before the more powerful we are, the more food we need. Taichō needs to have his sweets first, but that doesn’t mean they’re all he eats!” Then turning around, she hollered loudly enough to resound over the din of the mess hall, “Ito! Hurry up!”

“Coming up! Coming right up!” hollered back a booming, rough voice.

And before their eyes, the crowd parted to make way for a strapping kitchen staff clad in the white, happi tunic of the Thirteenth, pushing a trolley of steaming dishes towards them.

He had to do a double take. 

There were three tiers in the trolley, and each tier was filled to nigh overflowing with steaming hot dishes and bowls.

“See?” Rukia gestured with a proud flourish. “We know how to look after Taichō.”

The brown eyes of not-Kaien bugged at the sight of the quantity of food. Then the young, rugged face broke into a laugh. 

“Thank goodness!” chortled not-Kaien, sounding and looking relieved. “For a moment you really had me going there!”

Rukia answered with a withering, purple stare. “I’m surprised you even think otherwise. Come on, help us with this.”

Instantly, the lean, lanky form of not-Kaien sprang up from beside him.

Then he could only watch, increasingly dazed, as the trolley drew alongside their table and both youths — one the fifteen-year-old, Human hero of Seireitei, the other his hundred-and-fifty-year-old, bossy, would-be fukutaichō, if it were entirely up to him — chipped in to assist in transferring a dizzying parade of hot, aromatic dishes from trolley to table, the pair arguing to and fro throughout even as they bustled in unconscious, perfect synchrony around the strapping bulk of the flustered-looking Ito.

The hand on his right thigh squeezed gently, discreetly lending him bracing strength.

“The boy is completely taken with you, Amai’take,” chuckled the dry, drawling baritone in his right ear.

He turned.

Glinting, pewter eyes were twinkling merrily at him from beneath lazy, hooded lids, watching him with fond amusement.

“I do not think—” he began, only to halt in mid-sentence as fragrant steam wafted against his left cheek.

He turned towards the enticing aroma — only to see that the two large earthen bowls had been uncovered, one a herbal, tonic soup double-boiled with a whole chicken thigh, and the other essentially a small pot of plain-steamed, purple rice.

Then a pair of strong, peach-tanned hands set his small, personal bowl down before him.

It was filled with purple rice swimming in tonic soup and chicken pieces. There was noticeably less steam now, the soup having been cooled enough for eating.

It was also served in exactly the way he usually ate his daily tonic meal.

His heart missed a beat, then skipped.

He looked up.

But not-Kaien had turned away to resume Rukia in distributing the never-ending retinue of dishes.

Lifting his eyes to survey their table, he realised he could no longer see its surface, for almost every span of it was covered with tantalising dishes — glistening, tender slices of spit-roasted kurobuta pork loins… thick, honey-grilled fillets of river eels that looked delicate enough to part at the merest nudge of the chopsticks… toasted wheels of white, daikon radishes and lotus roots… small, bamboo cups of chawanmushi egg custard steamed with ginkgo nuts… finely shredded peels of onion skins curling over blocks of tofu steamed in soy sauce and sesame oil…

His brows rose at the sight of the last dish — seafood. A generous, and extravagant assortment of thickly sliced raw fish, of fat, translucent prawns shelled and draped over tiny cushions of pressed, white rice, enormous crab claws freshly steamed, thick rounds of grilled scallops almost as large as his palm, and sea urchins—

Sea urchins?

When did his kitchens indent such delicacies? The coasts lay at the very edge of Soul Society in every direction, and the number of Souls who had traversed to and fro that far over the last thousand years could be counted on the fingers of both hands.

Looking up, he skimmed his gaze over the throngs crowding the mess hall, to the lively, merry queues circling the long, wide buffet arrayed down the centre of the hall — the spread was a veritable feast, brimming with the same exotic, mouth-watering fare that had been so thoughtfully selected for him in elegant morsels — it seemed as though the entire Gotei Thirteen had turned up to feast at his tables, for the throngs and the queues were even spilling into the courtyard beyond.

Or rather, his kitchens had deliberately extended the buffet to the outdoors. He could see the festivities through the entrance of the mess halls, for their shōji panels had been thrown wide aside for the night. Small balls of white, kidō lights were bobbing jauntily above a sea of Shinigami, illuminating their merry faces. Every now and then, through the throngs of black-clad bodies, he could glimpse parts of the same, generous buffet spread… and, of course, the three spit roasts of whole, kurobuta young hogs.

The display could hardly be missed, elevated as it was upon a dais of logs, and attended to by three muscular roast masters clad in no more than white, drawstring trousers and cloth bandannas. Sweat glistened upon their heavily muscled arms and chests as they skilfully basted and rotated the carcasses over the open flames — real flames, not kidō flames, licking up from a stacked mound of red-hot, blackened logs — and whenever parts were deemed perfect to be served, deftly carving them out in a showy display of knifework to wild, appreciative applause and cheering from celebrating Shinigami.

A low whistle emitted from not-Kaien as yet another martial display perfectly landed precise slices of roasted meat onto waiting platters borne by the waiting kitchen staff.

“Look at that, Ukitake-san! Swordsmen disguised as cooks! Rukia, why didn’t you ever tell me your division is full of hidden martial artists? Just look at that skill!”

Rukia’s purple eyes met his helplessly.

He explained, “They are not our—”

“I’ll bet your entire kitchen staff are expert fighters, right?” went on not-Kaien, oblivious with excitement. “Imagine that! So different from Zaraki’s division where everyone can’t wait to show off!”

He tried again, “They do not actually work here—”

But he got nowhere, because not-Kaien finally plopped back onto his seat, and declared with a wide grin, “Hey, Ukitake-san, finish your tonic quickly, alright? Don’t want you missing out on the roast, they smell too good!”

Indeed, a sweet, distinctive scent was wafting over the entire festivities and filling the mess hall, mingling with the aroma of roasting meat, making for an altogether tantalisingly piquant and juicy perfume in the air.

“Here, let me…”  Without waiting for his response, his young Human guest began dishing out more portions of his tonic meal with deft, purposeful motions, clearly intent on emptying the two large earthen bowls.

The low, drawling laugh sounded in his right ear again. “Aye, our young friend is completely taken with you. And why not? I know I am.”

He turned to give an admonishing stare at the lean, aristocratic face smiling indulgently at him.

“In the first place, I did not even know we hired roast masters!” he admonished in a whisper, trying not to sound as exasperated as he felt. “And do you realise those are kaede wood they are burning? To roast meat, of all things!”

The indulgent smile slanted rakishly. “Of course I realise. I reckon ‘tis Rukia-chan who convinced her brother-in-law to spare a Kuchiki maple tree or two, so you have nothing to worry there.”

“I beg to differ,” he muttered disconsolately. “I will be hearing no end of it from his household, even if Byakuya himself is above such minutiae.”

“Then let your officers deal with such minutiae,” was the nonchalant reply, accompanied by an equally nonchalant wave of a nearly empty sake dish. “You are so much farther above petty details than our young Kuchiki lord.”

That did sound like a tempting plan. For the Kuchiki gokenin was nothing short of a terribly difficult individual.

Then the warm palm on his thigh shifted, trailing up over the angle of his right hip to skim over the top of his buttocks, before resting over his lower spine, pressing comfortingly against his coccyx.

“And there is little point in dispelling the rose-tinted view of our young friend, Amai’take.”

Was there not?

He cast his gaze out, at the festivities before them.

The celebrations, impromptu as they were, were only beginning to liven up. Yet, everything was already… too much. Ridiculously over the top, and as far as from the simple, quiet dinner he had intended as it could possibly be.

For it seemed all of his kitchen staff had been mobilised for this, as he watched their white, happi tunics darting through the restive sea of black like spilled barrels of white rice as they bustled about indoors and out serving, clearing, carrying—

He must really learn to be more specific, he realised with a pang of helpless rue. Repay their young saviours with a satisfying and nourishing meal, was what he had requested. And his kitchen staff had certainly obeyed him, for the fare was faultlessly hearty and bracing, exactly as he had ordered.

The rest, however, was the entirely the direct result of his chefs habitually taking enormous creative licences with his instructions.

The palm on his lower back began gently massaging, comforting him.

“They will get it at some point, Amai’take,” rumbled the warm baritone, in a consoling tone. “They have been interpreting you orders through proxies for three hundred years. That is a very hard habit to break. Give them another three hundred years to get used to taking orders from you in person.”

“But these excesses need to stop!” he returned dejectedly. “We did not always live in such times of plenty. You remember that.”

“Aye, I remember. But they do not.” The lean, stubbled chin nodded out towards the crowds in the mess hall. 

And that was utterly, and worryingly, true.

Glumly, he observed the seas of celebrating, feasting Shinigami thronging and brimming through the hall. Some he knew, most he did not. All were young — much, much younger than the faces who used to crowd this very same mess hall over a millennia ago — in the sense that these faces before him were exhausted from the past week’s emergencies and heinous discoveries, not centuries of wars, sieges, and hard campaigns.

These were not the battle-hardened and war-weary faces of soldiers who had survived and thrived through centuries of trials by violence and bloodshed. And loss.

Therein lay the difference, he understood in a flash. These faces before him, they were faces of those who did not know the true meaning of loss.

One and a half millennia of peace and prosperity had erased memories of thousands of years of suffering and devastations. Even from the minds of long-lived Souls.

Looking down, he studied the bowls of tonic chicken purple rice porridge now laid out before him, cooled and ready for his partaking.

He knew some considered him decadent. He had heard the whispers: the favoured son of the founder of the Gotei Thirteen, upon whom the Sōtaichō lavished with a daily staple of valuable herbs and purple rice.

But these herbs and rice, at least, had been carefully, and painstakingly, cultivated over nigh two millennia, and a local economy diligently built around them so that the commodities were now democratised, and were attainable by most without costing citizens too much of a premium over other food staples.

The event tonight was another matter altogether. Those were nothing but excesses — and he could do absolutely nothing about them. Not in the short term, at any rate.

Decision made, he resolutely picked up his spoon and began to eat.

“There you go, Amai’take,” approved the baritone drawl, even as the palm on his lower back began massaging lower and lower — until the loving touch was rubbing soft, teasing circles over the upper cheek of his right buttock.

His pulse quickened. Instinctively, he set aside his spoon, picked up his bowl, and bent his face to drink up the rest of his soup, the better to hide his warming cheeks.

“You really must have more of this, Ukitake-san! It’s sooo good!” gushed not-Kaien. “Can I get the recipe for it? My youngest sister Yuzu will want to try this at home for my old man and my other sister Karin.”

“Uhn,” he began, then hurriedly swallowing his last mouthful, said more clearly, “Aye. Just inform the kitchen that ‘tis my wish the roast masters share their recipes with you. Though I myself do recall that the gravy is braised mainly with kurobuta cheek meat.”

As soon as he put down his emptied bowl, strong, peach-tanned hands wordlessly put the second small bowl of tonic porridge into his hands, and whisked away the first empty bowl.

He did not question and began on it immediately, abruptly feeling hungrier than he realised.

“Oh! Okay, I will tell them, thanks!” A medium-sized plate appeared before him, heaped high with tender, succulent slices of kurobuta roast. Then those strong, peach-tanned fingers picked up a steaming, ceramic boat and began dribbling hot, aromatic gravy over the reddish, meat slices. “Careful, the sauce is very hot…”

The hand rubbing circles on his right buttock slow, then shifted once more, trailing back to his right hip. He felt the fingers pause at the crease of his hip and thigh, and begin to softly rub at the crease.

A frisson of heat flared down his right thigh, and up his right side.

He shot a look to his right, fully intent on asking his soul brother to relent with the distractions — only to see the wavy back of a chocolate-haired head, and the familiar sight of a pair of delicate, crimson pinwheels on the tips of two gold hairpins rising from the knot of a long, wavy ponytail.

Leaning slightly forward, he had to suppress a ripple of mirth.

Shunsui was valiantly attempting to engage their taciturn guest seated on the other side — the tall, hulking, dark-skinned youth whom his friends affectionately called Sado-kun.

The giant boy was clearly unable to converse more than a handful of words at a time.

“Oi, you’re the Quincy?”

At the blustering interruption, tension fell over their long table, and all within hearing abruptly hushed, and stilled.

A band of Shinigami had appeared at the far right of their long table. Meatheads, from the looks of their belligerent eyes and rough, cocky brashness.

Eleventh Division.

They were staring challengingly down at where he had been sensing an unnatural emptiness the whole night — where the quiet, bespectacled Human youth sat silently dining on the other side of Sado-kun.

 Uryū-kun. Whose presence was strangely, persistently blank. Whatever that remained of the Human boy’s reiryoku was now an apparent vacuum.

Though, when he focussed upon it, a bare trace of the youth’s reiatsu grated and jarred dissonantly upon his reikaku.

He had not felt reiatsu like that since he retreated from the field three hundred years ago.

And no Shinigami had ever encountered any like it since the Quincy Genocide.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”  the band leader was demanding.

Uryū-kun looked up, then ignoring the challenge, resumed his meal.

“Why, you-you’re ignoring me?!”

The Quincy youth merely continued eating his dinner and ignoring his challengers.

The band leader took a step forward, leaning in threateningly, with one fist aiming for the edge of the table.

On his left, he sensed his Human guest tensing up, ready to leap into action.

“Having a party?” interjected a flirtatious, feminine voice.

Despite the words, the tone of the new voice was anything but inquiring or flirtatious — and it had the effect of making the meatheads jump and whip around, their ranks inadvertently parting to reveal the newcomer.

Tall, blonde, and ample-bosomed Matsumoto was standing right behind them, a come-hither smile playing about her full, sultry lips. Her long, manicured fingers of one hand was holding up two sake bottles by their porcelain necks, while her other hand was resting fisted upon a curvaceous hip.

Her watching blue eyes, however, were stone cold.

And she was not alone. At her right shoulder stood Hisagi-kun, staring at the meatheads with his arms crossed, his armbands stretching over the hard, defined bulge of his biceps. While at her left, Kira-kun stood hanging back slightly, looking pale and solemn though no less hard-eyed.

Several heartbeats passed.

Then the band leader and his cronies looked at one another, and as one, slanted their beady eyes towards Shunsui and himself.

His soul brother’s face was showing polite, if bored, interest.

He knew that his own, too, was displaying much the same.

The meatheads exchanged more wordless looks between themselves, then in silent unison, relaxed, snorted, and stalked away, shooting looks at the three newcomers as they passed.

Beside him, his young, Human guest relaxed, muttering, “Who are those clowns?”

“Our neighbours, unfortunately,” grumbled Rukia, farther down his left.

There was a brief pause, and then, in realisation, “They’re Zaraki’s goons?”

“They meant to start a fight right in front of us!” floated the light, high voice of Orihime-chan from the other side of Rukia.

The Human girl sounded audibly shaken.

And who could blame her?

“That’s just stupid!” burst the incredulous rejoinder from beside him. “Ukitake-san and Shunsui-san are both sitting right here!”

He turned to his guest, meaning to calm the young Human.

But his words died upon his lips when he saw the fierce indignation upon the rugged, peach-tanned face.

For an instant, that face became older, more angular, its skin lighter, as those brown eyes lightened to aquamarine and that shock of spiky, orange hair darkened to raven black.

He blinked, and once more he was looking at young Ichigo-kun, their new Human hero and friend.

“Does Zaraki know how badly his people are behaving?” the Human youth was railing on.

“Zaraki encourages them,” put in Matsumoto cheerfully, her voluptuous figure swaying as she sashayed towards them. Her blue eyes had lost their stony frost and were now twinkling merrily. “Do what we do and pay them no heed. They will be soundly trounced tomorrow for their failure tonight.”

“What?” rang out three baffled young Human voices in unison.

Except for Uryū-kun, who stared at the blonde fukutaichō confusedly in lieu of speaking.

“‘Tis Zaraki’s way of training them,” shrugged Matsumoto, setting down her sake bottles between Shunsui and himself before plopping down on the other side of their long table, uninvited. Then she waved for her two male colleagues to join her. “Come on, boys. Kyōraku and Ukitake Taichō are great drinking buddies, trust me.”

Kira-kun looked flustered. “But we’re not invited—”

“You know you are, Kira-kun,” he hastened to assure, smiling warmly.

The two young fukutaichō hesitated a moment more, and then tentatively took their seats, one on either side of their female ringleader in the order they had arrived.

That placed Kira-kun directly opposite him.

Immediately, the young, blonde fukutaichō shrank before him, guilt darkening his fair skin as he began looking everywhere except at him.

The sight saddened him. This young one would not be recovering anytime soon.

“But I don’t get it,” pressed Ichigo-kun. “What do you mean that’s Zaraki’s way of training them? By making his squad going around picking fights?”

“Hmm, you must be Kurosaki Ichigo,” Matsumoto said instead, her long-lashed blue eyes gazing at his Human guest with bright interest. “Matsumoto Rangiku, Tenth Division Fukutaichō. Pleased to finally meet you after hearing all about how your saved us.”

“Well, hi,” awkwardly returned their Human saviour. “Just call me Ichigo.”

“A, I fully intend to,” sniggered the voluptuous fukutaichō, tossing a long, blonde tress behind one shoulder. Then she reached for the nearest stack of sake dishes, her movements jiggling her deep, exposed cleavage.

He averted his eyes courteously.

“And to answer you, Ichigo, for the Eleventh, ‘tis either they pick fights they can win and report their victories, or be soundly beaten by their taichō in their dōjō every day,” replied Matsumoto matter-of-factly, as she began laying out the stack of sake dishes. “Which would you choose if you were an Eleventh?”

“I’ll choose to transfer to Thirteenth!” was the instantaneous reply.

Startled, and utterly moved, he swung his gaze left.

Ichigo-kun was staring at them with passionate conviction.

Exactly like how Kaien used to look when his late fukutaichō spoke of what he believed in.

The hand circling his right hip paused, and then slid down to his right thigh to squeeze comfortingly.

“Bullying is not the way to train!” Ichigo-kun argued heatedly. “I’ve been a Shinigami for only a few months but even I know that by now! And how long do you people live? Centuries?”

“Thousands of years, for some of us,” quipped Matsumoto, slanting a sly, flirtatious look at Shunsui and himself, as she began pouring the sake from one bottle.

“It’s peace time, Ichigo. Where else can hotheads vent their excess energy?” spoke Rukia sagely. “Much as I wish they’ll find other outlets, there’s only so much we can improve in dōjō and simulation exercises.”

“Then send them to our world to fight Hollows for real!”

“And have them make a mess there for real?” snorted Matsumoto. “I think not. I have enough paperwork as it is.”  Then batting her eyes above a broad smile, she asked liltingly, “Ai, Shūhei and Izuru dears, would you both give me a hand and pass me those as well?”

The two young men immediately moved to assist, collecting and passing down stacks of sake dishes from the right and left ends of their long table.

“No way will two bottles be enough,” Kira-kun observed quietly.

“I’ll get some more,” volunteered Hisagi-kun, leaping to his feet and hurrying off towards the buffet tables.

“Awww, Shūhei!” gushed Matsumoto, loudly enough to be heard across the din. “How sweet you are!”

The back of Hisagi-kun’s neck turned scarlet as his tall figure melted quickly into the crowd.

A bark of a baritone laughter escaped Shunsui. “Careful there, Rangiku-chan, or you will be giving him nosebleed next!”

“Ai, but what else can a woman do when the two most eligible taichō are off the market?” Her twinkling blue eyes fluttered outrageously at them.

“Off the market?” echoed Ichigo-kun obliviously. “But I thought Shunsui-san and Ukitake-san are not married— ow! Rukia, what was that fo—”

“How dense can you get?”  exclaimed Rukia in exasperation.

“Ai, the cat is out of the bag!” proclaimed Shunsui merrily, baritone drumming with laughter.

Snorting laughter joined in, buzzing inelegantly out of Matsumoto as her bosom quivered and shook.

He decided to take pity upon their new friend — and perchance to discover the missing piece they still did not have.

“I heard you defeated Zaraki,” he began kindly, changing the subject.

Relief and a wince simultaneously flashed across the young, peach-tanned face beside him.

“Didn’t you also hear I ended up in a world of hurt after that?” grimaced Ichigo-kun. “I’ll be avoiding Zaraki from now on. It’s just not worth the pain!”

“That sounds like a story to go with the sake,” suggested Shunsui, sounding politely curious.

He knew better than to believe that tone, of course. The same question was doubtless burning just as intensely in the sharp mind of his soul brother.

However, aloud, he amiably added, “I believe all of us at this table have stories to share tonight.”

“Can the storytelling wait till Shūhei returns?” asked Matsumoto woefully, holding up the two bottles upside down.

They were both completely empty, yet only half of the dishes had been filled.

“Ai, Ukitake Taichō, considering how much Kyōraku Taichō and you drink, why is it that your decanters are sooo terribly petite?” she lamented. “I hope Shūhei has the sense to come back with jars, not bottles.”

“He better, because here comes Renji and Ikkaku,” suddenly warned Rukia.

He turned his eyes in the direction of where he sensed the pair of arriving reiatsu — and had to quickly stifle a laugh at the sight walking through the wide entrance of the mess hall

Or more precisely, limping through.

Abarai-kun and Madarame-kun were so heavily bandaged, it was a marvel that they were even upright at all, much less walking.

His young Human guest, however, was completely impolite about it.

“They look like Egyptian mummies!” chortled Ichigo-kun gleefully.

And, indeed, the pair did. He once observed the bodies of recently deceased kings and queens being embalmed and wrapped in a country named Egypt in the Gense, over a thousand years ago. Not a sight a Soul could ever forget, even without an eidetic memory like his.

“Better serve all the sake before they reach us,” instructed Rukia quickly. “They’ll drink everything we have even though they can’t hold their alcohol all that well.”

“Really? Oh no!”

He jerked back as Ichigo-kun bodily leaned forward and diagonally across him, reaching for his sake bottle and the stack of sake dishes between them.

Before he could decline, the youth’s strong, peach-tanned hands had deftly lined up the sake dishes between them and was already pouring, quickly filling the dishes.

He really should not drink before his medical appointment.

“I should not—” he began.

But a filled dish was gently pushed before him.

He lifted a hand, meaning to draw the attention of his young Human guest in order to explain, when Ichigo-kun turned and their fingers accidentally touched.

It was just a brush, more than a touch. Only the merest, lightest contact of those young, peach-tanned fingertips upon his.

But every single one of his senses screamed.

And blackness blinded him, smothered him, swallowed his very soul—

~ ~ ~

[—hear us?! Master! Master!]

[Can you hear us?! Can you hear us, Master?!]

[Hush, I hear you. I hear you, fret not,] he assured the twins.

He felt strangely lethargic.

Enervated, to be more precise.

[You told us to call you as loudly as we can if you are dreaming, but you were not asleep, Master, you were not! But you were gone! Gone, Master! Like when you are dreaming—]

[Aye, Master, you just vanished! Where did you go, Master? You were not asleep yet you were dreaming—]

[Hush, all is well now,] he hastened to reassure. [I heard you, like I told you I would. And I am back. ‘Twas no dream, you need not fear. I was merely lost in memory.]

Yet, his own assurance rang hollowly even to himself.

Memories did not blindside the mind like that.

Whatever that was.

Not a dream, he was certain of it.

But neither did it feel entirely like a memory.

It was as though he… as though it was a… a something which he felt he should know.

Yet, he did not.

The answer eluded him.

And it would continue to elude him, if he did not get a move on.

Time to give chase.

He moved to leave — only to find himself pinned.

His eyes flew open.

And he blinked.

The same dry, barren, artificial world greeted him. Still looking as flat as it did beneath the sterile, unchanging, noon light.

Except that the world had tilted.

The lifeless land of gravel and rocks now stood flanking his left in a sandy, rocky wall that reached above and plunged below him limitlessly. Yet it ended abruptly ahead of him, several shaku away, cutting off in an unnaturally straight, stony edge. Whilst on his right, sprawled an endless wall of a glowing, azure expanse painted with motionless, fleecy, white clouds.

For an instant, he stared blankly at the skewed world as he felt it, all at once.

He was not pinned down by any object, but by a heavy, mildly tingling sensation of…

Of stillness.

Focusing inwards, he tried to identify it. 

And realised it was a physical inertia — a debilitating, gripping inertia that was permeating his entire body, all of his limbs, weighing him down to his very extremities.

Even to his fingertips and toes. They were faintly sore, as his entire body was dully aching, stiff.

As though he had lain still and unmoving for an age.

Lain… ?

His senses finally caught up with his mind. 

The world had not tilted.

He had.

It was he who had turned. He was lying supine upon the ground on his left side, while looking out at the artificial world of the benkyō heya beneath Urahara’s Shōten.

Despite the perennial noon day, the ground felt cold. And smooth. He could feel its cold, smooth hardness through the multiple layers of his cloak and robes cushioning his body.

And the sensation felt completely at odds with the rough, pebbly surface his eyes were seeing.

“Come on, awaken now.”

The words were murmured in a low, purring alto.

He became aware that his left cheek was pillowed upon a thigh.

Two thighs.

Someone’s lap.

And then he became aware of the dark, cool scent.

As dark and cool as the soft, smooth touch stroking over the curve of his right cheek.

Fingertips. Slender, soft, and silky, without calluses. Gliding feather-light over his forehead, gently sweeping the long strands of his bangs back from his right temple and tucking them behind his right ear.

Over and over.

Each stroke was careful, and tender. Trailing over his forehead, over his right temple, over the shell of his right ear, and then over his forehead again.

Each touch sent a light, whimsical ripple skipping onto his senses, each ripple rebounding and dancing over the previous ripple, each successive ripple flitting a playful beat upon his reikaku.

He knew that rhythmic reiatsu.

Like he knew that touch.

And that scent.

Mere days ago, had it been — four, perhaps five days — when that presence reappeared upon his senses. After a hundred and ten years since its abrupt disappearance.

Though he now understood the reason for its disappearance.

It was not personal.

Unlike what he did two hundred and fifty years ago, when he ended its dominance in his life. In his bed.

That was personal. For him.

But that presence was here now, cradling his head, its familiar touch caressing the side of his face.

Like how it once comforted him.

For the moment, he allowed himself to accept its offer of solace like he once did — and reflexively turned towards it, seeking it, turning onto his back.

The caressing touch his face stilled, and then fell away as he looked up.

Lambent, golden eyes were looking down at him, watching him unguarded, with naked worry.

And something else.

Something indefinable and barely there, discernible only because he was looking into those glowing, yellow pupils at such close quarters — it cast an odd, unfathomable expression over the dark-skinned, sharp-featured, feminine face looming over him.

Unbidden, remembered images began scudding rapidly through his mind. He swiftly scanned and discarded each one as it sped past, trying to find a match to the look in those eyes. On that face.

There was none.

Those eyes, that face, they had never looked at him that way before.

He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what was wrong — but found his voice lost.

His throat was dry. Tight, and closed up.

Smooth, cool fingertips immediately returned, falling over his lips to still them.

“Shhh, rest. I have you,” spoke those shapely, dusky lips, in that low, purring alto.

In that instant, an ingrained, instinctive need brimmed to the fore — the need to assure, to belay another’s worry for him by obeying.

So, he obeyed, and signalled his compliance by releasing the tension in his body.

He had not even been aware that his muscles and tendons had gone tight.

“There you go now, take it easy for a bit,” burred that low alto with audible relief, even as that strange, indecipherable look faded from those dark, sharp features. “That was some spell you had.”

As his body loosened, so did his throat. Gingerly, he swallowed, to see if he could moisten his larynx.

He must have moved his mouth, for the fingertips began to softly rub minute circles upon his mouth — over the bow of his upper lip, over the pillow of his lower lip, and over the bow of his upper lip again.

“Un,” he responded. And was immediately vexed.

That was not what he wanted to say.

A corner of those dusky lips lifted and curled into that familiar, lopsided half-smile.

“Uh huh, very lucid,” teased the husky drawl. And then, uncannily, answered him anyway, “But you are welcome. Good thing I arrived in the nick of time. You were almost over the cliff.”

Over the… ? Instinctively, he tracked his eyes to his left, turning his face to follow the direction of his sight.

The fingers on his mouth obligingly fell away, allowing him to take stock of where he was.

Gravelly, sandy ground met his eyes. Over the finely pebbled surface were a line of faint footprints, each one small and slender. Each footprint was almost directly in front of the one immediately behind, tracking a nigh single track towards him.

Like those of a cat.

He traced the faint path with his eyes, following it back… and farther back, until his gaze paused at where the last print ended just before a messy blur of impressions — at the spot just before the point of the chasm where the land split into the straight, razor gorge.

Where he had last stood.

Clearly, he had fallen there, right at the split in the land. Almost over the cliff.

Precariously close, indeed.

The precipice was now at least fifteen shaku away from him. So he had been moved, carried to safety away from that rocky brink.

Turning back, he looked up gratefully into the dark-skinned, sharply feminine face above his.

The half-smile upon those dusky lips twitched sardonically in response. “You are welcome, but ‘twas also for my own self-preservation, you know. Genji-sama would incinerate us alive if you hurt even a hair on your head while you are under our roof.”

Reflexively, he frowned, his usual words rising to the fore to correct that age-old exaggeration — and then recalled how his father had been recently.

He paused. Had everyone else been right all this time?

“Finally, you begin to see what I once kept trying to tell you.”

How did she—

“‘Tis your eyes,” went on the low, purring alto.

As he watched, those golden eyes watching him back suddenly sparked, and began to blaze darkly even as that half-smile crooked into a smirk.

A smirk that he knew very well. 

Despite himself, his pulse rabbited through his veins as heat trilled through his nerves. And, before he could react, the cool fingers returned and gently, very, very gently, took his chin and tilted his face up.

Startled, he momentarily allowed it, staring into the smouldering, predatory yellow gaze burning down upon him.

He could not remember any time that this same touch had touched him so carefully.

Handling him like he would break.

“Your eyes speak your heart, even when your face does not,” husked the alto, dipping almost to a burr.

 Then, surprising him again, those cool fingers on his chin softened, and tenderly, so very, very tenderly, turned his face a little left, then a little right, and then a little left again — and that dusky-skinned, sharp-featured face suddenly flashed with triumph.

“And I must say, I am so enjoying having Kyōraku in my debt once more for saving you, so enjoying it. Much, much more than when he last owed me.” And in a soft, throaty, murmur, “Because just look at you now, all alone in my territory. What is he thinking, letting you out of his sight wearing your hair like this?”

~ ~ ~

Ai, Yoruichi.

Still going on about that.

Clearly, the meaning of the word ‘desist’ did not exist in the lexicon of the infamous Shihōin catwoman.

Never mind that it was only very mere days ago that he had outright rejected her touch and reminded her, in no uncertain terms to boot, that their past was exactly that. The past.

“Sto—” But his voice died in his throat when his parched larynx clenched in protest.

“I mean, look at you,” she went on right on, ignoring his attempt to speak. Her fingers fanned, cupping his jaw delicately as her lambent yellow eyes roved softly over him. “Look at you. Do you never see yourself in the mirror?”

He did, and he always saw the same thing he always saw — but he refused to debate his self-perception with her.

Not when she was still so unpersuaded.

Inwardly, he chided himself for expecting otherwise.

After all, this was a woman who had scant little inhibitions, no matter that she had been born and raised within the intense strictures of her station, or that she had been rigorously schooled and trained in the rules and norms of Soul Society government.

“I meant what I said, you know. Maturity truly suits you.” That strange, indecipherable look was suddenly back on her dark, sharp features.

This time, something else was swimming in the heat of her golden eyes, something akin to… to a…

He frowned, trying to identify it.

“All those ancient Shihan painters and sculptors and poets and playwrights, they did not know, did they? No one knew. Except Genji-sama. And I have come to realise, Retsu-sama too. And Sasakibe-san. And, of course, Kyōraku.”

“Nn…” He paused, swallowing to moisten his throat, and tried again, “Nn-Knew…w-what?”

His voice sounded dismayingly hoarse, as if long disused.

How long had he lain insensate in her lap like this?

“Shirogami, the patron kami of the Gotei Thirteen, he who is divine, who commands the storms and the seas.” Her husky tone was intent, delivered with a knowing, satisfied glint in her smouldering smirk.

Like a cat who had discovered his secret stash of mice.

“The four of you hid it so well,” she rasped on, then chuckled, and added, “Nay, the five of you, must not forget that Sasakibe-san has been in on it right from the start. All the lores and legends of the Shirogami are real, are they not? Because the Shirogami is real, is he not.”

He gave her the same look that he gave to very young children with fanciful imaginations.

In answer, she arched a fine, purple brow. “‘Tis not hard to see the connection, you know. All it took for me was sitting here for an hour watching you with your head on my lap. Seeing the way you look now, with your hair braided like this… none of those artists made the connection, did they.”

He answered with another indulgent gaze.

“Although, how many of those artists ever had the chance to look at you so closely like I just did?” At that, her golden eyes cooled, and became thoughtful. “Perhaps no artist was ever allowed to portray the live model at all. Genji-sama certainly would not have allowed it.”

At this point, he felt he had to say something. “‘Tis just a braid, Yoruichi,” he managed to croak.

There. A full sentence finally spoken without a hitch.

“Just?” she snorted derisively. “I learnt enough to know that nothing with you is ever just something. You are Ukitake Jūshirō. The only thing Genji-sama hoards more than his own power.”

This conversation had gone on long enough.

“In those days, many wore their hair in braids,” he dismissed — and was irked when the effect was somewhat spoiled by his words coming out as a weak rasp. He began to shift, turning back onto his left side as he drew his left elbow beneath himself, adding for good measure, “And ‘tis just coincidence that my hair is white... I understand if you are imagining similarities which do not exist.”

“Imagining—” she bit off her retort with an irritated noise. 

Silent alarm rose when he realised his arm was trembling. Beneath the tingling, immobilising inertia, he could feel fine tremors coursing through all of his limbs, down to his very fingertips

Indeed, the tremors were snaking through his entire body, faintly sore and aching as it was, as if all his muscles, even the small, fine ones, had atrophied from long disuse. And were now protesting against his command to move.

How long exactly had he been lying here like this?

Yoruichi mentioned an hour. Clearly, he had lost consciousness before she found him.

But the tight dryness in his throat and mouth felt like he had not spoken in days, even though his conscious mind and senses told him not more than mere hours had passed.

“You know what? Have it your way,” the Shihōin catwoman relented in a throaty huff. Then she leaned back.

As her shadow retreated, noon light fell directly into the side of his face, warming his cheek and making him squint in reflex.

“But I know that you know very well what I am speaking of,” she lobbed in triumphantly. “So go ahead and carry on keeping your secret if you wish. Only mark my words, such a thing cannot remain concealed for much longer, now—”

“Help me up,” he rasped.

“—that Aizen had rifled through the whole of your precious archives for kami knows how long—”

“Help me up,” he rasped again, louder this time.

She stopped, blinking.

“Help… me up,” he panted, vainly trying to lever himself up onto his left elbow.

He hated his body when it failed him like this.

Strong, slender hands wrapped around his shoulders, and with embarrassing ease, lifted his torso bodily until he was sitting upright, albeit still leaning at an angle against the much slighter, female body behind him, with both his legs lying sprawled to his right bent at their knees.

As he sat gathering his breath, supporting himself on his left arm with his left palm planted firmly upon the strangely smooth and cool artificial ground, he cast his eyes around, seeking for Sōgyo no Kotowari.

They lay quietly to his left, within his reach, the lacquered wood of their case gleaming dully in the noon light.

Craning his neck to his right a little, he asked, “Was I unconscious when you found me?”

There was silence.

Alarm rising even more, he turned at his waist within the supporting embrace of his female former colleague, sitting up fully despite the tremors continuing to assail his body.

When he finally faced her fully, she was staring at him with a tight expression, all mischief gone from her dusky-skinned face.

“Yoruichi?” he questioned, his pulse quickening.

“I found you collapsed and almost falling over the cliff. That was an hour ago,” she answered in a low, tight voice.

An hour was usual for his spells. And he must not have been unconscious for long before she found him, or Tessai would have been here already.

“But no, you were not unconscious.”

He started, confused. “Not unconscious? So I was conscious?”

“I have no idea what it was. But you were certainly not unconscious. Your eyes were opened. Yet you were not there.”

He tried to understand. “Not there?”

“That was what I said,” the Shihōin catwoman almost snapped. “Your eyes were opened. But you were simply not there. And you stayed like that for so long, if you had not come out of it when you did, I would be carrying you back to Retsu-sama right now.”

There was—

He swiftly racked through his memory.

He found no precedent for this.

“But that was not all,” she added, face and tone abruptly ominous. “I sat through your spells before in the hundred years we were together. Not once in all those spells did your eyes go completely black.”

He froze.

“You were not only not there, your eyes were wide open and completely black. None of your past attacks were like that. What in kami’s name happened to you while I was gone?” And her golden gaze suddenly sharpened.

All at once, he could put a name to that indefinable look swirling in the glowing, yellow depths of her eyes.

Fear.

It was a look of fear.

For him.

~ ~ ~

There was no sun in the artificial sky. There was not even the movement of clouds to track and mark the passage of time. This fake world was so unnaturally still, it left no clue to how much time had passed — how much time he had lost.

The land sprawling away before them was still as wrecked as it had appeared when he first saw it from above — still horribly scarred by that giant, cross-shaped razor gorge carved into a seemingly endless expanse of dry, barren rockiness — and it still felt incongruously smooth and seamless beneath him where he sat, even though he was padded by the long, multiple layers of his cloak and robes pooled around him.

Only the winds still felt real.

Fortunately.

Dry, warm currents whispered low in his ears as they gently blew past, ruffling the heaped folds of his heavy cloak, stirring his bangs against his cheekbones.

He shut his eyes, to shut out the incongruent sight of the rough, parched terrain, and imagined instead that he was seated on the flat, smooth, granite floor of the pavilion atop the northern banks of the Ugenkō.

But then, without sight, he became acutely aware of the cool, soft, firmness of two round mounds pressed against his back, in stark contrast to slender band of steely strength arm wound about his left biceps, and over the left side of his chest.

Yoruichi’s arm. And her breasts.

His eyes flew open at once, even as his right hand rose, and latched onto her forearm, unconsciously noting that her sinews barely yielded beneath his grip over her sleeve.

He swallowed for the umpteenth time, trying to moisten his throat a little more.

It still felt gummy.

He could use a drink of water right about now.

“You scared the Soul out of me,” murmured Yoruichi against his nape, her cool breath wafting past the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

A gentle pressure was moving up and down over the right side of his chest.

He looked down — and saw slim, dusky-skinned fingertips tracing over a section weave of his braid, going over and over the gleaming white herringbone weave where it hung draped down his right shoulder, and over his right pectoral.

The motion was slow, and steady, and utterly like that of the nervous-obsessive, repetitive self-grooming of a cat reassuring itself in times of stress.

And he let it continue. For the unconscious, idle repetition seemed to be soothing the Shihōin catwoman where he could not.

Because he — he, who remembered everything — could not remember the faintest bit of what had happened to him.

“And you came out of it just in time, you know,” Yoruichi went on teasingly, attempting to mask her audible anxiety. “I knew the wrath of your overprotective family would come down upon my head soon as I appear in Seireitei with you in that fugue state. That thought made me hesitate. And a good thing I did, too, as we now see.” Her arms involuntarily tightened around him.

She never held him like this before. Determinedly, yet with extreme care, as if fearing to hurt him.

Concealing his own apprehension, he permitted himself to rest in her embrace as he silently debated whether — and how — he should explain.

When he had not the faintest clue himself.

The only thing he knew, was that everything in this artificial world was as fake as that fourth reiatsu was utterly real — and currently zinging on the furthest edge of his reikaku.

That fourth power, it was riding so deeply within the three entwined reiatsu of Human, Shinigami, and Hollow, and mimicking the Shinigami reiatsu so perfectly, he would have missed it, perhaps been fooled by its behaviour, if he was not an Elder.

But he was. Hence its existence was now as clear to him as the artificial light of the perpetual noon day — an extremely faint, but utterly distinguishable tearing, discordant sensation searing and gnashing at the fringes of his senses, clawing at him in exactly the same manner as that hammering power which had caught him so unawares a week ago, on the bridge of the Senzaikyū.

It would be hurting him now, if it was not so eroded.

If he was not an Elder.

His father. Senpai. Shunsui. They, too, had each sensed it. And they had each speculated, hypothesised, made suppositions, based on their respective sensory impressions. As had he himself.

But hypothesising and theorising were one thing.

It was a completely different thing to be confronted with conclusive, irrefutable proof of their musings.

Because something like this was impossible.

Yet, here it was, right here. Even if existed as a barely discernible stain, left behind right here, in this very place where their young Human friend had first called his Shikai.

He found his rational mind floundering. There were still some missing pieces. Critical pieces. How was this impossibility… possible? How was it that it had affected him?

Why had it affected him?

“You found something here,” came the solemn, purring alto of Yoruichi close behind him.

He bit his lower lip, then gave a slight nod.

“What is it,” came Yoruichi’s voice again, her tone dropped to a near throaty burr.

“Ichigo-kun called his Zanpakutō in this exact spot,” he finally said, for lack of any other clue as to how he should proceed.

In response, the sound of a low, irritated sigh rose behind him. “Kisuke confirmed that after I came back and confronted him with what I found from you Elders. Grudgingly too, I should add.” Then, falling sombre again, “What else?”

He hesitated, then carefully, confirmed, “We surmised correctly from the moment we met him. Our young Human friend… he is related to Shiba Isshin. Very closely related. But therein lies the difficulty…” He paused, frowning.

“Souls and Humans cannot mix, our natures and biology are simply too opposing to be able to produce offspring,” Yoruichi finished for him.

He nodded, grateful for her quick wits. “Aye. Which means the only possible way Ichigo-kun could be a Shiba is if Isshin passed on in the Gense after we lost him here twenty years ago. And was returned here incarnated.”

“I thought the same,” Yoruichi put in. “That was why I spied on Ichigo’s family for a spell. I wanted to know who the boy’s parents are. I had to find out on my own that Ichigo’s mother had passed away several years back, and his father is a Human doctor named Kurosaki Isshin.”

The name caught his attention, and he half-turned to face her.

“Nay, forget it.” Yoruichi shook her head, purple ponytail swishing like a long, thick bush. “The man may look like a Shiba, but he has no reiatsu whatsoever. None at all. You have been away for over three centuries, so you do not know how common Shiba physical traits have become among Humans. Looking like a Shiba these days says nothing about the lineage.”

He chewed on the new information.

Until another thought struck him. “But… what are the chances that Ichigo-kun’s father is an ordinary Human reincarnation of Shiba Isshin?”

“That, Ukitake, is something only you can tell us," Yoruichi returned. “Kisuke, Tessai and I have never met this former Tenth Division Taichō before.” Then she paused, suddenly looking thoughtful.

He waited.

Golden eyes blinked, and then looked at him darkly. “At least, I have never met him. I am also fairly certain Tessai has never met your lost Taichō either, or he would have told me.”

She had deliberately left out the third member of their trio.

And he noticed that she had also let slip a clue.

Sitting up straighter, he drew his legs towards himself, pulling them into a cross-legged position — and was pleased when he realised that the tremors in his muscles had ceased.

Still, he ought to continue to be gentle with his body. Thus, twisting gingerly at his waist, he reached out towards the long, wooden case of his Zanpakutō.

The case was heavy.

Exerting a drop of reiatsu, he lifted Sōgyo no Kotowari from where they rested on the ground and gently slid them across his lap, running his fingers comfortingly over the plain, richly varnished wooden lid.

A trill of relieved ripples tickled against his fingers.

[I am well,] he reassured them further. And before they could pipe up — as he knew they were wont to do after any episode of his affliction — he quickly added, [We will speak later.]

To Yoruichi behind him, he softly, but firmly, queried, “You said you confronted Kisuke-kun after you returned? But I was told that he had not been in the shōten since he sent me this.” He smoothed his cloak with his other hand, in indication.

There was a pause.

Followed by the stirring shift of a movement.

Then the svelte, toned outlines of feminine legs clad in form-fitting black pants appeared beside him.

As he turned to look, the slender, curvaceous figure of the Shihōin catwoman folded lithely down into his line of side, settling easily onto her haunches beside him as her glowing, golden eyes looked earnestly into his face.

He waited expectantly for her to speak, idly noting that she was still clad in the same attire as when she had accosted him in his office days ago — in that long-sleeved, bright orange, fitted top which he knew Humans called a jacket, worn buttoned up over that black, figure-hugging jumpsuit. Both outfits still looked clean enough, however.

“Kisuke is not avoiding you, you must believe me,” she said, her expression open and honest.

He arched a questioning brow.

She sighed. “Aye, I know that is not how it seems. But trust me, Ukitake. He will never ever admit it, not even to me, but in his heart, he feels ashamed to face you again.”

He frowned. “Ashamed?”

“Aye, ashamed,” she confirmed ruefully. “I know the reason for it, but ‘tis not my place to tell you, nor would it be right for me to do so. He needs to tell you himself. ‘Tis best for his sake that he does so of his own volition.”

“That is difficult, ne? Seeing as he refuses to even allow me a glimpse of him.”

Without a trace of artifice, she pleaded in a low burr, “Give him time, Ukitake. A day more, or two. Please.”

The Shihōin catwoman he knew had never been this genuine.

He looked away from her searching, golden eyes.

Time.

It was something he still had, albeit only a little of it.

“I cannot linger here beyond four days, five, at the most,” he softly reminded. “My father…”

A low, throaty laugh interrupted him. “Oh, do not worry about that. Genji-sama said as much to me when he rang ahead last evening. We know when we should return you to him. Even if we forget, Amagai will come and collect you. That one will not be letting any one of us forget our promise.”

At the mention of his bodyguard, he felt his skin prickle.

But he said nothing, however.

Instead, he swept a hand at the chasm before them. “Well, then, since you are here, you tell me. Do you truly sense nothing here?”

“Not a thing,” Yoruichi confirmed with a shake of her head. “Tessai is always obsessive about cleaning. What I know about Ichigo’s powers is still what I sense, and ‘tis this messy, brutal force that leaks everywhere. I know you Elders told me what you sensed in Ichigo, but I still cannot imagine it. I only saw the Hollow mask appear on him twice, the first time when I rescued him after Zaraki pounded him to a pulp. The second time when I trained him to Bankai.” Her dark, sharp features pulled into lines of confusion. “But I cannot see how such a hybridisation can even be possible. Ichigo will need to have parentage from Humans, Shinigami, Hollows, and Quincies. Yet Kurosaki Isshin is an entirely a non-powered Human.”

“What about Ichigo-kun’s mother?”

The lush, purple ponytail swayed with another shake of head. “From everything I overhead, it seems she was a non-powered Human too. ‘Tis biologically impossible for two plain Humans to produce an offspring like Ichigo.”

Her reasoning was sound. And based on scientifically proven fact.

Yet, not only was it solving nothing, it was now confounding the issue to a whole new level.

But how was he to explain something only five Souls in existence could detect?

Six, if Aizen’s powers had indeed ascended to the extent that he suspected.

He refused to think about that for now.

Looking at the Shihōin catwoman, he carefully asked, “Did you not ask Kisuke-kun about this when you met him?”

A look of frustration crossed her dark, sharp features. “If I had gotten an answer from him, I would be sharing it with you right now. But he refuses to tell even me.”

Rapidly, he chose and discarded several possible replies he could give — but gave up quickly when he realised that in the absence of full facts, there was nothing he could say which would not cause premature alarm.

Thus, he repeated the words of the Shihōin catwoman back at her.

“Back in the Seireitei, you mentioned that when you trained Ichigo-kun to Bankai, his Bankai release made your fur stand.”

A wry chuckle rose as realisation rose upon Yoruichi’s dark face. “That was exactly what I said to Retsu-sama. I should have known she would relate to you my words with her.”

He shook his head. “I did not learn your words from Senpai.”

Golden eyes widened with sudden understanding. “Ai, then ‘twas the Daireishin which told you. I forget you were recently joined to it.”

Ignoring her comment, he went on, “The sensation you felt at Ichigo-kun’s Bankai release, if I am correct, ‘tis also here.”

Again, another shake of the bushy, purple ponytail. “I will take your word for it, since I sense nothing here.”

He was getting nowhere.

Gathering his feet under himself, he began to rise, carefully levering himself up in a steady motion.

Fortunately, there was no dizziness as he steadily unfurled to his full height.

Small puffs of dust stirred and sifted up around his shins at his movement, despite his slowness. When he stood upright finally, he reflexively dusted off his cloak — only to find the black velvet folds completely clean, without the slightest speck of grit.

He frowned.

This place was truly becoming too disorientating.

“We should regroup with Tessai-dono,” he decided.

Yoruichi silently sprang to her feet as well, her golden eyes watching him intently.

“Perhaps he sensed something while he was cleaning this place which may corroborate with what I found,” he went on. Then, belatedly remembering his manners, asked, “However, he mentioned a meal to me, I hope I am permitted to discuss as we lunch?”

Yoruichi shrugged. “No permission needed, we do that all the time, talk as we eat.”

“Even with guests?” He was surprised.

A corner of her dusky lips lifted ruefully. “You really have been away for far too long. Much has changed here. Meal customs being one of them.”

“I see,” he nodded in acceptance, hiding a pang.

Indeed, he had missed much.

Preparing himself, he was about to leap into shunpo when, suddenly, Yoruichi was standing right in front of him, with one of her slim, dark-skinned hands planted firmly square in the centre of his velvet-covered chest.

And she was looking up at him with narrowed, golden eyes — and a set, unyielding expression.

“Not so fast, you. Do not think I did not notice you changing the subject. You still have not told me what happened to you here. Well?”