Work Text:
The wretched gasps of his living, breathing other half are screams in the desolation of the battle. A pale chest heaves for salvation beneath the condemning, black layers of the shinigami uniform, and the zanpakuto counts them, every one, as he waits for his own heartbeat to match the shuddering plea of his partner's exhausting body. Drowned in a haggard and filthy kimono of the purest amethyst, the silvery zanpakuto is a light extinguished; the skies of his gaze are cloudy; his hair is the slush of snow. The icy wind of winter cannot touch his slender being, but the bitter clutch of death chains him down with the heavy whisper of a promise failed. It murmurs to him through the crack of Hyorinmaru's torment; sings to him with the beat of blood dripping into a scarlet pool of futility.
Tōshirō will not say that he is scared. His status as the most powerful ice type zanpakuto to reign the Seireitei is not for naught after all, and he has succeeded in guiding the other half of his soul away from dangers worse than this before. The ice he commands is a shield as well as a blade; they have survived massacre, torture, and a war-stricken government, and Tōshirō still has his pride as a heavenly guardian over Hyorinmaru's worthy soul.
(Yes, his pride, slowly bleeding out just a foot away).
The zanpakuto shuffles closer to the fallen shinigami. Arctic water sloshes as his beautifully wrecked kimono trails through the sodden dirt and sand; the glacial claw arched over where Hyorinmaru is resting drips, expiring time. The sharpness to the ice's shine has faded and Tōshirō, reaching one small, ethereal hand towards the trickle of blood down his partner's cheek, startles when his fingertips return with a daunting shiver.
In a frozen furnace his power burns; he should not – cannot – feel the cold.
"Hyorinmaru," he breathes, his terror thunderous in the tomb the earth has enclosed them in. Hueco Mundo is cold and isolated, and though Tōshirō is the beastly essence of such conditions, Hyorinmaru deserves better than to die out here alone.
The shinigami wheezes, his dark eyes scarcely a glimmer on his bloodless face. "I am not – alone – little one," he gasps in reply. His serene demeanour is tight with pain but he smiles for Tōshirō, as he has always tried to do.
("I swear our shinigami are more like zanpakuto than we are," Ichigo had laughed once, pulling faces behind the curly storm of Zangetsu's hair to entice a laugh from the slighter spirit, the two captains unwittingly continuing to converse in a sophisticated and prudent manner.
"That would imply that your perception of 'zanpakuto' is narrow-minded and subjective," Tōshirō remembered replying, raising a stern eyebrow from across the room.
Ichigo had snorted so loudly that his partner's hair had jumped in the sharp intake of breath, causing Zangetsu to jolt and knock the table, spilling tea and alcohol all over Hyorinmaru's uniform.
Tōshirō had conceded that maybe a valid point was being made).
The zanpakuto tucks himself further into his kimono, attempting to hide the shadows of his failure from the searching eyes of his weary half. Hyorinmaru finds them anyway, chuckling with a groan at the sight of his little spirit, as if there is something humorous about the broken state they are in. Tōshirō is warmed to hear the sound even though he is being laughed at, and he reasons that is probably precisely why Hyorinmaru is letting his amusement known.
"They say there is – life – after death," the shinigami ponders aloud, breaking off with an excruciating cough. Tōshirō stays quiet throughout the shudders of Hyorinmaru's chest, even as blood is spat into the folds of his lilac attire and across the sandy ground. Though it sounds as if they are surrendering to their fate, trapped together in the desert, Tōshirō knows there is a fight still howling inside of them even as Hyorinmaru continues, "Will there be – for you?"
No, is the scream that almost breaks its way through the lips of the fading spirit. There is only condemnation; condemnation and suffering for the soul I failed to protect.
Tōshirō says nothing.
Hyorinmaru's smile ages into a vile expression of grief. "I fear for you," he says, groaning either in agony or with a withering regret. "One day – one day I will leave you –"
"Never." Tōshirō's voice is ice, the rapid strike of a blizzard, but his eyes are alight with a passion that burns in every speckle of reishi that sustains him. "I will follow you, wherever you wish to go."
There is something vulnerable in Hyorinmaru's eyes – just for a second – and then the shinigami earns the smile he often graces to his soul in privacy. "I am not – ready – to die," he declares, and Tōshirō sits a little straighter at the words; the hoarfrost defence above them strengthens with a crack.
(Which one of them is being comforted here?)
"Good," the zanpakuto states, uncurling his numb body from the ground. His ache is a reflection of Hyorinmaru's agony, and it serves as fuel for his determination. They cannot die here – they will not die here. He is not willing to let Hyorinmaru slip away in this barren wasteland, not while the air still bows to his command and the skies still weep to hear his voice.
Tōshirō leans over his gravely wounded half, clinging to the extravagance of his kimono so it doesn't disturb the raw bloodiness of the injuries. A pained sound tumbles out of Hyorinmaru's lips, but his stubborn consciousness doesn't dwindle. Tōshirō hastens to soften his touch, to ghost over the areas of pain.
"You are warm," says the zanpakuto, wondering if freezing another protective layer over the extent of the gashes will cause any further damage. (Blood is still seeping into the ground – he might have to).
"You are cold," Hyorinmaru teases weakly. "As always."
"I am not ready to let you go," Tōshirō snaps, yet he rolls his eyes despite himself. "There must be something I can do."
He doesn't voice it as a question, but he scans the confined area around them for answers. How far underground they have fallen is impossible to tell, but the wails of the desert wind and the hungry cries of any drifting Hollow are imperceptible to his otherworldly senses, so it must be a great distance. At first, the fear that the scavenging Hollow pack would follow them had consumed him. As Hyorinmaru lay twisted, unable to defend himself, Tōshirō had prepared for the inevitable destruction of their temporary shelter, tightening his ice around them for one last stand to fight for what was his to protect. Except the Hollow had never come, either unable to reach them or bored with the idea of playing with their lives for any longer, Tōshirō did not know. He had hoped the latter for their own safety, but with their earthy tomb crumbling around them and the single glimmer of moonlight now just a speck between them, he knows it was the former.
Ichigo had been right. They are only alive because Hyorinmaru is privy to most of Tōshirō's secrets – anybody ranked below a captain would have befallen a fate worse than theirs.
He curses coldly under his breath and reaches up to trace his fingertips along the colossal curve of ice, half melted, over his head. It has started to drip again.
"To assume your true form – would have – consequences," Hyorinmaru rumbles.
The zanpakuto presses his cracked lips together, dropping his gaze back to the more pressing matter before him. "Yes, I know," he replies, puffing out a wisp of snow in a sigh. "I will leave that until we have no other choice."
The possibility that he may further harm or kill his partner by stretching his gigantic wings is not one he wants to risk, so Tōshirō will only take the chance if Hyorinmaru's health deteriorates to the point when death is imminently upon them. Praying that such a moment is never reached, the silver zanpakuto does his best to treat what he can of the shinigami's injuries, freezing thin coatings of ice over the skin to reinforce the makeshift bandages that Hyorinmaru's haori has become. Hyorinmaru hides his complaints by keeping silent, but Tōshirō can hear them anyway, the pain humming through the bond of their soul.
When he finishes this task, the zanpakuto stands in his juvenile height and is dismayed to find that he has to duck to glide around the cramped enclosure. Trailing through the remnants of the melted ice and sand his tattered kimono slips and slides about his feet, but he cannot bring himself to be concerned over its ruin. The earth beyond the frozen barricade puts up little resistance as he pushes some reiatsu through it, searching for the awful stench of Hollow and the familiar rhythm of Hyorinmaru's lieutenant and division. He finds neither and so widens his exploration of the desert, forcing more of his delicate reiatsu through the sand. The other half of his soul grumbles at the additional exertion but does not protest the action.
"I'll be a moment," Tōshirō soothes anyway. He does not believe he will find anything worth commenting on and he is right – he cannot even feel the blazing fumes of Zangetsu and Ichigo, and surely they would have been alerted to Hyorinmaru's fate? Resolving to try again after some time has passed, he draws his reiatsu back in and hears the captain shudder at the sensation.
"Nothing?" Hyorinmaru croaks. There is a distance to his voice, looming ever so slowly. Tōshirō glances down at his hands and notices they are still trembling, involuntary in the cold.
Worry starts to bleed back into his cool demeanour.
"Nothing," Tōshirō confirms bitterly, glancing up at their cocoon again before settling back down beside the blackening pool of scarlet upon the ground. He dips his fingers into it as if to stain his form with the proof of his failings. "Try to rest, I will watch over you."
The shinigami complies. Agony still marks his features even as his consciousness starts to wane.
Tōshirō waits and wonders if Hyorinmaru will ever open his eyes again.
Tundra welcomes him to life. His name is silence upon his tongue and his thoughts are strewn in confusion; the wind in the blank expanse howls and twirls, as if trying to assemble his sentience as it gathers the scales that piece him together. A serpentine body is curled in a mountain of snow, cocooned by the arctic touch and warmed by the tender whispers of the blizzard. A head of grand proportions emits its first rumble, and two teal jewels blink at the austerity of the sound. Surprise flickers through him like the glistening of ice in the early morning light. He is large – larger than he imagined he might be, and the thought that he might have had entity prior to his awakening amuses him. He has only been conscious for a minute or two after all, and that is certainly not enough time to have built expectations for the world.
Is it?
…Is he alive? Is this what 'alive' feels like?
Or has he simply been sleeping for so long that he has forgotten his name?
A snarl erupts from his jaws, scattering the snow beneath him. The wind whirls at his displeasure, hastening to sooth him. Be calm, it murmurs, dancing down his scales. That does not matter now – you are awake; you are needed.
"It does matter," he grumbles back, lifting his head from the bed of snow. Hail trickles down his scales and flees as he uncurls his gigantic form. His slender body aches with an ancient age but his mind feels young – young and vulnerable in this uninhabited plain.
We are here, assures the wind.
"Where is 'here'?"
Familiar, replies the gales with a merry twirl. Belonging – home.
"…'Home?'" he questions. His wings unfold and he raises his head up – up to the endless expanse of the sky. In the distance there is little but white. He wonders if he could fill it with something – if it was in his power to do so.
Yes, home – safe, the wind lulls. Hyorinmaru will come.
The dragon does not recognise the name, but it echoes through the gusts of the wind with a song that eases some of his fear. He finds he likes the sound despite there being something missing in the tune as it sings inside his core.
"Why is it incomplete?" he asks, hoping that the wind will hear the same as he.
Your name is needed, it replies, hushing Hyorinmaru's song with the grave bluster to its voice. Your name is –
– Is?
– Is what?
The wind flutters around him. He turns into its touch, hoping to encourage it to continue. He must know what he is called; he needs to complete the song. Hyorinmaru's song will make him feel less alone in this barren wasteland of snow.
We don't know what your name is, says the wind. But we can help you find it.
"Where should I look?"
Familiar, it replies, repeating the words from before. Belonging – home.
"…Hyorinmaru?"
Yes! The wind cries happily and the snow dances around his slender form, enticing him to move. Hyorinmaru. Find him.
He shakes off the last of the snow and stretches his colossal wings. His icy body lifts towards the sky. "Where is he?"
The wind laughs. Wherever you are. Wherever you will be. He is –
Tōshirō jolts as his ice shudders, calling to him with the howl of a frozen gale. Sapphire reiatsu spills into the darkness as he steps around the prone body of his partner, his feet trekking through the mounting patches of bloodied mud and water to reach the edge of the shrinking chamber. Hyorinmaru does not stir at the movement, but Tōshirō still strains to be quiet as he checks what has disturbed the frosted barricade.
A presence is pushing through the earth with haste as rapid as lightning, but the way it lingers with the smoke of a wildfire is familiar to the pastel zanpakuto. Tōshirō's reiatsu rushes to find it and sings with relief when fire meets ice in an explosion of delight. The voice that answers his call is muffled by the distance between them, but the zanpakuto revels at the sensation of Ichigo's wandering shadows. The burning reiatsu flickers in question (are you harmed?) and Tōshirō answers in earnest, expression shuttering as he turns towards Hyorinmaru, still unmoved.
I can't let him die like this.
You won't, assures the fiery presence, blazing closer. You haven't failed.
Hyorinmaru is still breathing – still fighting with a spirit of a dragon – but the zanpakuto only knows that because he has yet to fade away.
Wait until you see Zangetsu's face, Ichigo adds, and the dark reiatsu flashes like a candle in amusement. He looks like Shunsui and Jushiro have stolen all his sake and hidden it in Retsu's quarters.
Tōshirō laughs softly despite himself. The Fourth Division captain is formidable and even Hyorinmaru, who respects the healer above almost all others, is frightened of her. She is often the only reason that he submits to the hassle of medical attention – Retsu Unohana deserves Tōshirō's eternal gratitude for this, if for nothing else.
Minazuki is here with us, says Ichigo. She was worried about you – we all were. Stay put a little longer, we'll find a way to get you out. Zangetsu says Hyorinmaru owes him a drink, so don't die any time soon, okay?
I will pass on the message when he wakes, Tōshirō promises, smiling sadly as he kneels down next to his other half's struggling chest. He places a hand on top of the torn uniform, deciding to refrain from mentioning to the other zanpakuto that he can see through three of his fingers.
He'll wake, Ichigo encourages as Minazuki's steady pulse alights in the distance, her shinigami nearing wherever Zangetsu has found the remains of Hyorinmaru's battle. He will. You're too stubborn to let him go.
Tōshirō is shooting back an enchanted comment before he can think better of it. You're too stubborn to let me go.
A burn of distress joins the happiness that thrums through their bond, but Ichigo is calm when he replies. I am. It's definitely one of my better qualities, don't you think?
Stubbornness leads to impulsiveness, and you flatter yourself.
Oh look who's talking! Ichigo laughs in a spirited fashion, and Tōshirō cannot help but wonder what is really going through the fiery zanpakuto's mind now that he's faced with the potential death of his –
"– partner?" asks the man, his characteristically level voice lifting in a spark of marvel as he gazes up at the magnificent form of the dragon before him. The dark colours he wears are contrast to the white expanse of the snowy plain, but juxtaposing the great being that inhabits it he seems to fit in perfectly with the landscape; a speck of hope in the empty world.
"Yes," says the dragon, his mistreated vocal chords rumbling hopefully at the intrigued expression staring up at his slender body. "I am yours, if you will have me."
The man frowns at these words, but he does not appear to be angry at the declaration. Instead he seems confused, and the dragon waits silently for his words – condemnation or acceptance – as the wind sings around them.
"I do not understand," is what is said with a melancholy tone. "If you and I are of the same soul, why would I not want you?"
The dragon has nothing to say, but his silence speaks a thousand words that the newcomer hears all the same. The emerald haired shinigami inclines his head, allowing a small smile to break through the blizzard that howls around their inner world. "I would… enjoy the company," he states, sounding far wiser than his years permit. He releases his hands from where he holds them behind his back and carefully reaches to the lonely spirit.
"What is your name?" he continues.
The dragon doesn't move as his other half approaches. Warily he replies, "I do not know."
Large teal eyes watch the shinigami inch closer. The man doesn't startle at the words as he stretches up to brush his fingertips against the icy scales of the dragon's jaw. When he finds he cannot reach with his own power, he regards the enormous being with his lips pressed together, pondering the statement.
"Are you sure you don't know?"
"Yes," states the dragon, but the wind around them laughs a merry 'no!'
"I see," the man utters slowly, apparently unconcerned at how silly he looks with one arm held above his head. "I am Hyorinmaru. What would you like to be called?"
The gale quietens, as if the tundra is holding its breath. It stops snowing, the endless clouds finally happy enough to cease their frozen tears.
The ice of the dragon's scales chink and chime as he lowers his magnificent head down so that Hyorinmaru's hand is opened against the frost of his jaw. Hyorinmaru rubs his thumb into the frozen bone and brings his other hand up to cradle the gigantic snout.
"You are warm," says the zanpakuto.
"You are cold," says the shinigami.
The dragon hums a confirmation with thunder in his voice, but neither of them seems to mind their differences. Huffing snowflakes into Hyorinmaru's hair, the zanpakuto speculates what it will be like to spend his existence with the other half of his soul.
He imagines it will be difficult to protect him from pain and loss and terror.
He imagines it will be fulfilling; a purpose; a reason.
He imagines it will be all he has ever wanted.
"My name," he states, the words resounding around the icy plain. "My name is –"