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The stranger has beautiful eyes; paler than the frost that claws up the empty white of his robes, and colder than the snowstorm that howls about his solitary form. His gaze is ice enclosed by smudges of a storm – the markings across his face craft a mask, barricading his emotions behind a level expression of apathy. He stands static in the face of the blizzard, callous as his spectral attire shivers in the rush of the tempest. The fur lining his kimono protects his throat from the bitter jaws of the arctic world, but he appears a man who would be indifferent to his ultimate demise either way. He wears his emotionless complexion like armour, yet the slight of a frown upon his face suggests that his shield is cracked in places, as if tattered from years of misuse.
It is this – more than the outsider’s apparent ease at trespassing on such sacred grounds – that warns Tōshirō of the threat that has just invaded the privacy of his inner world. The wintry zanpakuto, great in size though presently small in stature, lifts from his rest among the snowy banks of the lake and flicks hail off of his amethyst sleeves. The frozen droplets bounce down the folds of his kimono – once, twice – before they are swept up in the enduring storm. Wary teal eyes track the passage of his spirit, watching as the snowfall preys upon the unwelcome presence of the newcomer. He cannot identify what mayhem the stranger craves, but as the shimmering reflection of his winter-born figure turns away from the icy water’s surface to address the anomaly, Tōshirō breathes out frozen tension and a burning desire to know.
Who are you? The gales shriek the question into the stranger’s ears, an echo of Tōshirō’s apprehension. Who are you to intrude on this home?
“Names are unimportant,” the man – figure, being, spirit – replies. He raises one of his bony hands to caress the snow with his tremendous nails. The wind flurries out of his reach with a cry – the man tilts his head and draws his gaze to the icy humanoid spirit, saying nothing.
(Names are powerful).
Tōshirō narrows his eyes. Every speck of reishi that constructs him quivers at the impending danger; there is a queer form of longing in the stranger’s stare – he yearns for something, hungers for it. The lie upon his lips is one of the many illicit methods that he will use to obtain it.
Averse to determine the nature of those other means, the icy zanpakuto inquires, “How did you come to be here? I did not invite you into this world.”
The domain of a zanpakuto is a haven. Beyond the halves of the soul that created it and any who are freely bade entrance into the realm, none should be able to dwell in an inner world that they do not complement. How little effort the stranger has used to attain his position so close to Tōshirō is troubling, but it’s not a concern that is as demanding as discerning his intentions now that he has achieved existence just feet away from where the magnificent zanpakuto had been sleeping. Tōshirō can ponder the systematics behind the weakness in his defence after the wind is once again his only companion in the expanse of the icy plain that Hyorinmaru bids they protect.
Although he scarcely moves in the bed of snow, the winter zanpakuto fixes his glare on the lonely form of the newcomer and waits for a response. Sapphire reiatsu pleas to rise to his aid. Tōshirō holds it back, a dragon’s terrible patience instead guiding him to wordlessly reach for his other half. He traces his chilling presence against Hyorinmaru’s conscience; slumbering, the shinigami is oblivious to the conflict unfolding inside of his being. Tōshirō is hesitant to wake him; unwilling to involve his earthly partner in matters that may result in his maltreatment. There may be little Hyorinmaru can offer in assistance anyway, he rationalises, though the zanpakuto knows this to be wholly untrue as he withdraws his touch from the boundaries of their bond.
An unfazed tranquillity in the centre of the snowstorm, the white-cloaked stranger merely blinks at the question – lazily, he brushes some of his rich, dark hair from his sickly features. “I do not need an invitation,” he says, the sheer arrogance of his words causing the gales to shiver. Whoever he is, he truly believes in the magnitude of his supremacy; hesitation forgone – he is dangerous. “My powers suppress all limitations and notions of the restrictions to your world.”
Tōshirō fights back a feral snarl of his true form. Regal and composed, he does not rise to his feet lest he express a ferocity that would induce a bout of combat. Instead, he layers the pleats of his lilac kimono over each other, sitting comfortably in the ice. “Then why announce yourself to me?” he queries, lifting his expression dubiously. “What could I – meagre in comparison – possibly offer you?”
“Nothing,” says the man, and Tōshirō cannot help but consider the stranger’s aloof tone of expectation to be just typical, really. Yet the stranger continues, curling his fingers into a fist of claws and daggers. “But I, in turn, could give you everything your heart desires.”
The gales shriek with laughter. The stranger flinches back as hail tears at his clothing, slicing raw contempt and incredulity into the skeleton of his figure. Emotion passes across the blank of his face for a second – surprise, definitely, and a flash of uncertainty – and Tōshirō’s lips quirk victoriously at the sight.
“Somehow,” the dragon spirit says, almost hissing the word. “I sincerely doubt that.”
Everything he has ever wanted is around him. Though cold and desolate to an outside eye, the breadth of snow is beautiful to him; the plain of ice is endless in its welcome. Words of promise call through the wind’s amusement in fragmented assurance: familiar, declares the hurricane, belonging – home!
“I think you should leave,” Tōshirō states. He contemplates hushing the gales, but the rush of satisfaction he feels at the stranger’s blatant uncertainty at his refusal to even consider the proposition persuades him not to. This is his world – the upper hand befalls to no one but him.
“I see,” mutters the spectral figure, his voice resonating clear with a muted savagery. Something in Tōshirō’s posture or words has altered his perceptions of the youthful zanpakuto. He takes a step forward, the end of his robes sullying in the slush. “A pity. And here I believed a soul as great as yours would thrive in being so much more than this.”
The word isn’t spat, but whispered, though Tōshirō straightens his spine and readies himself for assault all the same. The icy water of the lake behind him ripples in trepidation. Far in the distance, clouds wielding spears of storms gather above the mountain range. An apple of the silvery tree, ripe and whole in impossibility, snaps off a frozen branch and plunks down into the snow.
(Hyorinmaru rolls over in his sleep).
The stranger continues to stride forwards. As he does, a katana with a sheath of blackened scarlet materialises in his hands. The pallor of his skin seems to fuse with the pastel violet of the hilt. The sword is a ghostly extension of his body, and it glows with the same eerie light that begins to envelope his footsteps across the arctic inner world.
As the sharp of the blade is revealed and pointed towards him, Tōshirō doesn’t move. Nevertheless, the gales whirl around him, tempesting like a living, breathing fortification. The snow he is settled in strengthens beneath his hands, forming serrated blades of ice. He does not want to fight here, but to protect his home and other half, fight he will – tooth and claw, fangs and wings.
“Whisper –”
Tōshirō rises, his enormous body uncurling. Ice shatters in an explosion of movement. Waves of adrenaline ripple across the lake. Lightning flashes with a crash of thunder.
A dragon strikes; a teal-eyed child, alone and afraid, shudders as the purple blade retracts from his body and vanishes with a sound little more than a whisper. He tumbles backwards, tripping over the extensive elegance of his kimono, and watches helplessly as the tundra dissolves around him in a blur of white and black and hints of mauve.
When he wakes, he begins to wander. Dressed in fine cloth and the chill of winter, the childlike figure knows nothing of himself except that he is lost. Such a feeling is familiar to him, but he cannot place why. The streets he walks are endless in their questions and winding in their answers; he wants to understand this strange world of wood and stone, but his tongue will not form the words to query the mystery. Instead, it is weighted by a soundless syllable that he cannot distinguish – there is a comfort to the burden, but without the knowledge of his past or present, the spirit does not know what his soul aches to say.
The air shivers around him in grief. He is powerful – he can tell – but he is powerless in his unknowingness. He hates his ignorance, so he cannot place why he would desire to be drifting in this helpless state. It worries him that he may have wanted this. It frightens him to think that his little body is such a vastness of contradictions.
Every waking moment he spends gliding through the bustling streets, watching hundreds upon thousands of black-cloaked people mourn and rage and despair, he calls for someone. Who, he doesn’t know. Why, he doesn’t know. The world he has found himself in is entrapped in a battle, and though he is reluctant to get involved, a small, pained part of him feels as if it is imperative that he search the disarray. Who he is looking for will be there, something assures him: familiar, it shouts, belonging – home.
Home.
He cannot place the location of his own, but he is corporeal in this world so he reasons that he must have one. Yet when he tries to piece together any recollection of his home, all he feels is cold and empty, as if the solitary arctic is the place he used to dwell.
It must have been lonely, he thinks, but as he gazes at faces he cannot name and buildings he cannot enter without feeling as if he is trespassing, he wonders if anything could have been as lonely as this.
(He doesn’t think so).
“You’re not who I’m looking for.”
The shinigami inclines his head, the tangles of his ebony hair trailing down his haori at the gentle movement. His face is aged with severity – dark stubble frames the firm angles of his mouth and jaw. The blade at his side is encased entirely in darkness, except for the diamonds on the hilt, which seem to burn with an auburn flame.
The wintry spirit finds that his frosty gaze is drawn to the katana, despite his certainty in that the person he is searching for cannot be found here. If the shinigami is bothered by the silent appraisal, he gives no indication, but the snow-born figure would not cease his examination simply because he was making a stranger uncomfortable anyway. He has roamed for too long and too far in this busy world to care for such trivial matters.
“No,” says the shinigami, gruff and blunt. “I am not.”
Teal eyes flicker upwards and then drop past the sheathed blade to the ground. He had not needed that confirmation, but it stings all the same. Part of him wants to inflict revenge upon this shadowy newcomer for this truth – mindless revenge of anger and sorrow – but the warm voice of bitterness that is his only company mutters at him to wait – ask, so he squashes his wrath and adds, “What is your name?”
“Zangetsu,” the man replies simply, and though he seems somewhat surprised to reply with the question, there is a hint to his voice that implies he already knows the answer when he asks, “And yours?”
The air crackles like lightning in the cold. “I do not know,” admits the small childlike figure, his voice heavy with misery and time. Something about Zangetsu is familiar to him, however, so the winter spirit gazes at the strength and knowledge in the man’s features and wonders, briefly, if Zangetsu could offer answers to the ceaseless questions on his tongue.
The shadows around the shinigami quiver and thicken then, pooling together until they are large enough that they could swallow Zangetsu entirely – and then a figure steps out of them, his golden hair the sun and his trailing kimono the darkness in the wake of his light. It is a boy – a teen, a growing man, perhaps – but one who holds himself with the burden of age and the wisdom that clings to the passing years. His eyes are both young and old which confuses the silver spirit, but the unease in the man’s youthful expression is plain as day; he wears his heart on his sleeve, that much is apparent.
“Are you sure you don’t know?” asks the burning darkness of a boy, and though he seems relaxed in stepping away from Zangetsu with a fretful reach towards the icy being, he keeps himself in front of the shinigami, an instinctive protectiveness to his stance. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re not… who I’m looking for,” the winter child replies, but he doesn’t know if that’s right – he’s not sure what to say. There’s emptiness inside of him, and though the ginger being is likely not the one who can completely fill the agonising hole, the warmth in his hair and his eyes and his soul eases some of the pain.
This man, the lonely spirit thinks with an absolute certainty, this man knows who I am.
He knows my name.
He’s uttered it before, many times.
(And he utters it again; whispers it like a prayer; hums it as if it’s the line of his favourite song).
(But it’s only part of a song – the rest, he doesn’t know).
“Hyorinmaru,” the spirit gasps, taking in the wrecked sight of the captain’s wounded body, covered in streaks of blood and the fragmented remnants of an icy fang.
The shinigami – Tōshirō’s shinigami – blinks blearily at the call of his name, and peers up through the breaking storm clouds and tumbling snow to reassure the horrified stare of teal with a bloodied smile.
“Tōshirō,” he sighs in much the same tone – relief and sorrow and a twinge of apprehension. His eyes are soft and bright as they reflect the glacial ruin crumbling about them. The jagged edges of the scar upon his face curves as he smiles. “Have you remembered yourself?”
Have you remembered me, he asks, and the silver dragon roars.
Tōshirō’s skin burns sub-zero with remorse, but the large, rough hands of his other half do not shield away from the bitterness that threatens to consume him. The icy zanpakuto almost wishes they would – to harm Hyorinmaru would be a sinful act, and he fears the chill that sustains him will cause pain to the shinigami. Yet the emerald haired man is unfazed by these misgivings and lays his palms upon the trembling shoulders of the little spirit. It’s the closest they’ve ever gotten to a hug and Tōshirō flinches away – Hyorinmaru’s reach follows him, pulling him back to complete the motion.
“I feared for you,” the shinigami captain says, muttering gravely into the flurry of Tōshirō’s hair. He tightens his hold on the corporal form of his zanpakuto, but slow and gentle his hug remains, and their reiryoku hums as it is finally reunited and reformed as one.
You were alone, he does not say, but Tōshirō hears it in the way he closes his eyes and allows himself to take comfort in the spirit in his arms.
So were you, the zanpakuto doesn’t reply, but the words are loud in his guilt and the way he cannot bring himself to rest his gaze upon the security of Hyorinmaru’s presence.
They do not say anything else for a while, but then little has ever needed to be clarified between them. Despite the differences in their bodies, they are alike in mind and soul, and verbal verses are not the only form of communication they exceed in. In fact, it is the most unreliable of them all, for lies are formed on tongues and can easily slip between the cracked barriers of the mouth. Reiryoku speaks for them, an essence that cannot feel the lure of envy, and gestures assist when their ice battles and melts into puddles of disagreement. Yet their arguments are often petty in nature and brief in period; Tōshirō is Hyorinmaru and Hyorinmaru is Tōshirō – beyond that fact, there is little to dispute.
Thus, Hyorinmaru does not question the power of Muramasa’s influence – he doesn’t ask his other half why or how could you leave, but stays quiet and offers comfort; a steady presence and undying name.
“Forgive me,” Tōshirō mutters into the white of the bandages wrapped around the shinigami’s aching chest. His head is bowed, snowy fringe hiding his shame. Though he knows himself now, the grace of his kimono still seems to swallow a fragile body of awkward angles and regret. “For forgetting you.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” says Hyorinmaru, even though Unohana had scarcely glanced at the tears in his chest and the sickly white to his skin before deeming him unfit for active duty. “For I also need to apologise, little one – I should have felt Muramasa’s influence before it could consume you.”
The endearing nickname is so out of place in the miserable, sterile air of the Fourth Division that Tōshirō cannot help the exasperated roll of his eyes. It’s not until he hears Hyorinmaru’s rumbling laughter in his ear, however, that the zanpakuto realises what he has done. He pulls away to settle the shinigami’s amused maturity wholly in his gaze and apologies again – for his mistakes, his weakness, and his vulnerability in the face of Muramasa’s twisted control over his mind, and the shinigami’s laughter quietens into a sigh.
“We must grow stronger,” Hyorinmaru says, making no comment about the regrets. He runs his fingers through the endless waves of his jade hair and hums thoughtfully, a contemplative action he shares with his zanpakuto. “We must fly higher so we can never be ensnared like this again.”
The thought of unfolding his wings and rising to some unreachable place in the skies (far, far away from pain and death and sorrow) is a thrilling one, and the zanpakuto shivers as the chilling breeze between them voices its agreement. Although he delights in the sharpness and eccentricity of his humanoid form, the immensity of his serpentine slenderness (his quaking jaws, daggered teeth, and elegant wings of ice) is superior to the frailness of skin and bone. To soar with Hyorinmaru is his greatest desire – alone, he would rule, but lonely would he sit upon the frozen heavens.
(They’ve both been so lonely).
“Yes,” Tōshirō approves, folding his arms into his sleeves as he lifts his head. The lilac fabric conceals the tremors to his hands, but there is no doubt that Hyorinmaru can feel the waver of exhilaration in their reiryoku. “I have much to teach you – so much power to share. But for now, you must rest. Trust in your allies’ abilities to deal with Muramasa.”
Trust in me.
The timeless smile of the shinigami captain returns to grace his weary features as he settles back down in the bed, conceding to the wishes of his other half without his characteristic grumble. There’s definitely laughter in his tone as Tōshirō arranges the sheets down around him.
“Of course,” Hyorinmaru says.
Of course I do.