Chapter Text
Mejiro (n.) /may-jee-roh/ (Kanji: 目白), genus Zosterops japonicus, a small, olive-green Japanese songbird whose black eyes are distinctively ringed in white. They mate for life, hence are the subject of many genres of Japanese art.
A little, olive-green bird flitted between white-frosted, jadeite trunks, flashing emerald as it darted through silver sunbeams. Finally, with a frenetic flutter, it burst through dense bamboo canopies into clear, glacier skies, trilling sharply in triumph, its fluting notes swirling into icy winds. Soaring and wheeling over a white, gleaming, unspoiled expanse, on each turn one white-ringed, black, beady eye slanted down at the trail below – a lonely, furrowed line curving from the frosted bamboo groves out into the pale noon light, carving through pristine snow and winding past a solitary stand of tall, snow-capped, grey boulders.
In the lee of the tall boulders, two figures sat hunched over a small, flickering campfire, as still as the stones behind them. Hands tucked deeply into long sleeves, arms wrapped snugly over katana resting upright against them with hilts extending past their shoulders, the pair rested the side of their cheeks against their scabbards, their faces worn and greyed, and eyes smudged dark with fatigue. The black-goateed man appeared more strained, wearing an unkempt growth of black stubble over the lower half of his rugged face up into his sideburns, and tufted shocks of black hair spiking wild and shaggy above his thin, white, braided headband. His companion, a petite, gamine, young woman, bore lines of deep grief upon her face and glittering cracks of in her grey eyes beneath her smooth, cropped cap of straight, dark-blonde hair. Both were heavily bundled in beige, quilted, long cloaks of similar make, and kept the hems of their thick cloaks tucked securely beneath their feet.
Both shone with fierce resolution in their expressions.
Neither spoke, and neither moved.
As the trilling song of the little, green white-eye faded, the man raised his head and peered searchingly at the furrowed trail several paces away, his grief-stricken, black eyes tracing where the track drew past their small camp before it vanished around the boulders.
There was no one upon the trail.
Craggy face bowing, he lowered his eyes again and leaned his cheek back against his hilt, his expression pained, but still determined.
His slight movement was silently tracked by the saddened, grey gaze of the young woman beside him, though she said nothing.
As the pair resumed their vigil, the furrowed trail curved on past them, wound about the boulders, then straightened as it stretched out into open fields of unspoiled white, ploughing uninterrupted through smooth, cold powder towards the west.
Onwards the trail went, then as it neared the edge of the land, it finally came to an end in a small drift of disturbed, white powder, the stirred and scrunched snow disappearing beneath the edges of a stacked pile of thickly quilted, faded patchwork blankets.
As icy, gentle winds blew over the right side of the pallet of quilts, the corner of the topmost padded blanket flapped lazily, obscuring and then showing the gilded, bronze-capped ends of a pair of curved, dark scabbards. Both were of dark, well-oiled cherry wood, both finely etched and inlaid with mother-of-pearl filigree of sakura blossoms and leaves, the matching motif repeating upon both rectangular, gilded bronze guards of the long hilts. Each hilt was bound in fine, deep-sapphire silk threads wound in an intricate herringbone weave which left a vertical column of diamond-shaped windows displaying the glistening, dark-maroon ray skin beneath. The longer of the pair bore the distinct, pronounced curve of a tachi, the shorter the slight curvature of a custom wakizashi spanning slightly more than half the length of its longer companion. In the direct beam of the stark, noon light, very faint notches and nicks speckled the curved length of each scabbard, and the silk of each hilt gleamed a darker sheen two-thirds below its bronze guard.
The cold breezes blew on, mussing the long edges of the copious pallet of thick quilts, then lifting up and flipping over the left edge of the topmost blanket to reveal a single, long, dark scabbard of plain mahogany. Its only adornment was the deep, rich lustre of its polish, and the singular, elegant grace of its length and curvature, both traits balanced delicately between those of a tachi and a katana. Resting snugly against the mouth of the scabbard was the hilt guard, an undecorated, rounded oblong, bronze piece polished to a high shine and inscribed with four hieroglyphs along each long side, totally eight hieroglyphic characters in all. The long hilt itself was similarly bound in fine silk threads in the same herringbone weave, except that it was of a deep, blood red and the diamond-shaped windows showed the matte lustre of dark-chestnut shark skin. In the pale sunlight, the middle portion of the long hilt glistened a darker blood red.
And in between the three blades were the seated forms of their two masters, their frames huddled together upon the middle of the thick pallet, copiously draped and bundled beneath more layers of padded quilts, this time of faded silks. Their long manes streamed free over the worn fabrics, stirring in the freezing winds. One was a mane of wild waves gleaming dark as aged maple, the other a smooth, silken cascade of pure white shining even whiter than the snow. Both were facing the western skies, the white-haired one laying supported against the left shoulder of the dark-headed one.
Then the cold, white, powdery snow sprawled on smooth and unspoiled for several paces, and abruptly ended.
Past the sudden break, a deep canyon yawned, vast and unnaturally circular, the canyon floor far below presenting another pristine, gleaming expanse of snow filling the entire bottom of giant land basin. Opposite, barren, ochre rock rose up in sheer, vertical cliff walls, soaring into thick banks of snowdrifts rimming the edge of the land on the other side. Beyond, dazzling pure-white snow continued on, stretching empty and featureless into the distance, melding into uneven lines of rooftops lining the entire western horizon. The line of rooftops segued into dusky-blue, jagged peaks ranging out all along the horizon towards the right. While towards the left of the line of rooftops rose irregular, snow-capped, silhouettes of the tall and low buildings of a fortress city. Rising up above the eclectic skyline of the city was the shadowed, forbidding shape a towering, flat-topped mesa, and to the left of the mesa, nestled the outlines of broken, ruined towers.
With a sudden, final gust, the biting winds spiralled into the cloudless skies, fading the trilling song of the little, green white-eye. In the wake of winds and birdsong lay a frozen, white world, stirred only by a chilly whisper of a breeze, and glowing pallidly in sharp, silver light flooding down from the blinding, white smudge of the distant sun high in the zenith overhead.
The dark-headed one raised his head to look up at the cloudless canopies, the aquiline features of his lean, sculpted face ragged with deep exhaustion and barely withheld pain. Dark stubbles shaded his jaw and upper lip, and a black velvet eye patch was strapped over his right eye. A thin scar ran white and ridged from beneath the eye patch across his right temple, into his sideburn, to end where the top of his right ear should have been, the shell sliced off at a slant. His remaining eye was a silvery pewter, cracked with fissures of unarticulated hurt as he took in the perfectly clear, glacier heavens above.
“Finally stopped snowing last night,” he rumbled, his voice a mellow, baritone burr, thickened with restrained emotions. “‘Twas at the stroke of midnight exactly. I was watching, so I know.”
“Should have… rested…” drifted the reply from the white-haired one, in a voice breathless and thready, the mere ghost of a deep, lyrical tenor that once bore a warm, fluid vibrato.
The dark-headed one looked down and slightly to the left and buried the tip of his aristocratic nose against the silky, white crown nestled his neck.
“I will later,” he murmured, single, pewter gaze darkening with repressed anguish. Then he added, sardonically, “Had to be sure the Nyorai-bu[i] would keep their word and leave their pointless detachment to come clear the storm.”
“Do not be… so critical…” the whispered rebuke was filled with humour, nonetheless. “You too… will join… the Nyorai-bu… one day…”
“I doubt it,” the dark-headed one chuffed a laugh. Then gently rubbing his chin upon the white, silken hair, growled softly, “Still excusing them, Amai'take? After two thousand years of serving them at severe costs to yourself, they ought to have at least made every Winter Solstice Day clear and bright like today. Yet I do not recall we ever spent any of your birthdays without a blizzard freezing the entire Shikonkai[ii].”
“I serve… not them… but all… and ‘tis… my choice… I seek… no return…” A long, white, angular hand shakily rose, holding up a thin sheaf of papers filled with neat columns of small, tidy, hieroglyphic characters.
The skin of the hand was nigh colourless, near translucent in the biting cold, the long, tapering fingers visibly tremoring as they held the papers.
The sight prompted a stirring from beneath the quilts, so gently that it barely disturbed the large, sugegasa straw hat laying upon the quilts in front of them. A hirsute, lightly tanned, long-fingered hand poked out from within the heavy layers and pulled the thick blankets closer about the wan, angular face tucked below the dark, stubbled chin.
The white, shaky hand lightly waved the sheaf of papers. “This will help… our mission… flourish… after… I am gone…”
Agony cracked the lean, aristocratic face beneath the wild waves of dark maple, but was quickly concealed.
“Last page already, I see,” observed the dark-headed man instead. “Any thoughts? ‘Tis quite a lengthy outline of the structure of the curricula, but I wanted it be as detailed as possible for your review.”
“All chapters… approved…” The breathy reply was teasing, though carrying a serious undertone which belied the light humour of the weakened voice. “But… who will… write them?”
“That, Amai'take, is something you should never have worried about!” the dark-headed man chuffed a gentle laugh, baritone suffused with pride and also a great amount of mirth. “You know how news travel in the Gotei. Even weeks before I announced that we are putting together the syllabus, Rukia-chan showed up at my office all polite and like, then formally declared herself editor and Abarai-kun her assistant. Then Lisa-chan and Nanao-chan cornered me to announce that the chapters on organisation and administration belong to them, Byakuya invited me to tea and in not so many words ordered me to assign him the chapter on history and to only edit the chapter on Zankensoki since he was already polishing the first draft! I could not say no when he talked like that – I swear, he has turned what you taught him into an entirely new technique of Kuchiki diplomacy – and before I could leave, Rangiku appeared with a message from her taichō, ostensibly Hitsugaya-kun just found an ancient tome in the rare books archives of the Daireishokairō and wished to know if I could help identify it. I should have known something was up when Rangiku ditched me halfway on our trip there, because when I finally met up with our resident prodigy, the youth showed me instead the outline he had already made for the chapter on our hallowed library and the Daireishin.”
“That is… everyone…” The breathy voice was stunned.
“Not quite!” chuckled the dark-headed one. “Immediately after I made the announcement at Taichō Assembly, Mayuri accosted me in the corridors and threatened to sour my entire sake cache if I so much as assign Kisuke even a punctuation of the chapter on his Twelfth Division and development bureau! Ai, Amai'take, for the first time, I feared him! I verily believe he now feels we are completely even and he no longer has to tread on eggshells around me! And just when I had escaped from Mayuri, Shinji, Kensei and Rose all descended on me to tell me that they have already begun work with Love and Ichigo-kun in the Gense[iii] to write the chapter on all the races and worlds. By the time I could get to my rooftop, I found Isane-chan already there – you know, I must soon have a word with Nanao-chan about giving away my sake spot! Anyway, there she was, all ready with her review draft on the chapter on Kaidō, telling me that she has taken the liberty of adding a history of our healing arts beginning from the time of Kirinji-sama – and you simply must be told this, Kiyone-chan was right there with her sister telling me she has added to her sister’s draft the complete herbology and elemental Kaidō you developed!”
“Ai, Kiyone…!” The soft, breathy laugh was filled with warm affection.
“Then, finally, when I could sit down to some private time with my sake and Katen, my Denreishinki buzzed and what do you know, ‘twas Kisuke calling to say that Tessai, Hachigen and himself are developing a dedicated chapter on Kidō, and before I could get a word in edgewise, he passed his phone to Yoruichi who told me that Soi-Fon and her are already started on a dedicated chapter on Hohō, and then I had both of their voices ringing from my phone telling me to please remove both sub-chapters from Byakuya and that with all their deepest respect, of our four primary combat schools I should limit myself to Zanjutsu and Hakuda! You should have heard them, Amai'take, especially Yoruichi, polite as only the Shihōin Clan can be but so bossy! How could I say no? Besides, if there are any who has earned the honour of being the first to write a Kidō text for the first time in our history, they are Tessai, Hachigen and Kisuke, not the Kidō Corps.”
“Agreed…!”
“Aye. But, that is not all! Next day I received two official acceptances, from our new friends in the Central Forty-Six and from the Academy Head. They will be writing their own chapters but the thing is, I had not even sent them my requests yet! Then Hisagi-kun came to see me about his proposal of taking the Seireitei Communications independent but during that, slid in that he was providing all diagrams and pictures all the writers need and would be letting me approve the final layout and design of the textbooks in a few days, and then presented me with the requisition form for countersigning Kensei’s extremely large request for printing ink and paper and binding materials for getting the textbooks printed. And when I asked how he was going to perform the deliveries and distribution, told me not to worry because Zaraki and Iba have already commandeered the Eleventh and Seventh to do all those manual tasks. Then he said Humans nowadays have what they call dee-gee-tal versions, so he will be publishing in those versions as well. Really, he explained it all to me but there is no way I can repeat what he said, I still have no idea what he was talking about.” There was a split instant’s pause, a satisfied grunt, and then, “And that, Amai'take, is everyone.”
A brief silence followed.
And then, with soft amazement, “I did not… expect…”
“Ai! What did I always tell you? The mission of the Gotei is to keep the balance of Souls, that means the burdens of the Thirteenth are the burdens of the Gotei!” laughed the dark-headed one, both pleased and fondly exasperated. “‘Tis why I am adding a foreword to the first volume. To give an abridged account of how the Gotei arose, why and how you, and hence the Thirteenth Division, were given charge of all affairs with the Gense, how you seeded the idea of a Gense Gotei Garrison and waited so patiently for centuries for the time to be right to launch it. I am assigning your extremely learned Kajōmaru-kun to tackle this piece, perhaps with the assistance of Kira-kun. It will help distract the young man a bit from his woes.”
The pale hand shakily lowered and put down the sheaf of papers, resting over the straw hat. A white, tapered fingertip began tracing the large, red, five-petaled shape painted over the top of the hat, the heart of the blossom situated in the centre of the conical peak.
For two millennia, that gesture had always indicated a troubled mind.
At length, a soft objection came. “Hidetomo… he will be too… worshipful… of me… not suitable to… write foreword...”
“If Kajōmaru-kun wishes to pay tribute and homage to the taichō and sensei who lifted him to where he is today, he will receive unanimous support,” the dark-headed one said firmly.
“But ‘tis… unnecessary…” protested the weakened tenor. “These are to be… textbooks… for new Human… Shinigami recruits… spare them the… idolatry… please…”
“Precisely because these are textbooks for Human recruits, it is all the more important that they should know about the founder of their garrison.” The baritone was resolute. Then before another protest could rise, the hirsute hand reached out once more, this time to gently take the sheaf of papers and deftly, fold the sheaf back into half, before withdrawing with them out of sight into the thick layers of quilts. “I will add in the foreword to the outline then submit the draft to Central Forty-Six.”
There was a breathless, exasperated sigh, followed by a pause.
After a few moments, the reedy voice requested, “Help me up…”
Without a word, the dark-headed one complied, gently and delicately raising the other.
As the pale one unsteadily sat up, long, white hair slipped down in heavy, silken streams about a slender, oval-shaped face, unlined and youthful, bearing no trace of the millennia passed. The features were finely wrought, of gentle, classical lines, but thinned to such brittle delicacy with skin paled to such colourlessness, it was as though his very life was ebbing away.
Yet, as he scanned the clear, western skies, his eyes shone with the light of deep cosmos, their mahogany depths keen with ageless wisdom and the traces of an old, old power.
“Every… Winter Solstice… saw heavy… snowfall…” he murmured. “So cold… even Shinigami… feel the bitterness… reminds us that… we are not yet free… from endless Tensei[iv]… endless suffering…”
“This year is special,” insisted his brother, mellow baritone audibly hardened. “As well it should be. I will personally take issue with the Nyorai-bu if so much as a single snowflake falls.”
A soft, reedy chuckle shook the quilt-bundled frame of the pale one. “Nyorai-bu… do not… control weather.” So saying, the thin, white hand rose once again, trembling visibly as the pale palm opened up towards the skies.
A smudge of pale-blue light began to glow above the white, quivering palm, quickly becoming brighter, coalescing into shining, pale-blue ball. Then one long, white finger flicked the bright sphere gently and, like a bubble, it softly floated up, rising faster and faster into the air, diminishing until it finally blended into the clear, glacier skies.
Then, a moment later, lacey swirls of white clouds began spreading outwards from where the light ball had disappeared.
“Snow… will come again… tonight… my last gift… to all in Shikonkai…”
With a pained, suppressed moan, the dark-headed one leaned forward and gathered his frail brother against his chest, dark stubbled chin bending over one thinned shoulder.
“For once, Jūshirō, think of yourself!” The baritone was plaintive. “That was the last of your strength!”
“Strength I… no longer… need…” Wavering, the pale one fell back gratefully into his brother’s embrace. Long, ebony, gull-wing brows arched with slight mirth. “Not to… worry… Shunsui… I have… a little bit… leftover…”
A frustrated grunt escaped the one-eyed, dark-headed one. “Then instead of being pragmatic about the costs to yourself like always, can you please indulge me this time and save your power?”
Jūshirō’s lips curved into a grin. “But I have… indulged you… our entire lives… my young brother.”
Shunsui instinctively opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again with an audible snap. Sighing in resignation, he simply drew his elder brother even closer and said nothing of the thoughts still clearly roiling in his single, pewter eye.
Jūshirō nestled contentedly, clearly fatigued by even the brief moment of sitting upright on his own. However, his dark, brilliant eyes continued to scan the skies with anticipation.
“Powers rise… powers fall…” he murmured thoughtfully, with soft deliberation. “Life begins… life ends… and existence repeats… Matters not… what we do… or what we leave… Legacies are like… the sakura… they bloom… they thrive… briefly… and then they fade… Then they bloom… again… But we… we remember… each season of bloom…”
Shunsui harrumphed noncommittally.
“Each season… is different… from the others… for sakura trees… bloom differently each year… And so… we remember each season… differently… In the end… how each season… bloomed… is all that stays… with us…”
“And so it does not matter what we did, only how we did it?” Shunsui asked quietly. “Because ‘tis not the end itself, but the way we reach that end which endures in our hearts and our Souls, and shapes our future decisions?”
A soft, breathless laugh rose from Jūshirō. “Finally…! You understand…! Only took you… two millennia… be glad… that I am patient…”
A freezing gust blew and Shunsui instinctively cuddled his brother tighter.
Then turning his head, he buried his entire face against the white, silken hair covering a wan temple.
When he spoke again, his baritone was the barest whisper.
“What am I going to do without you?”
Dark, shining eyes drifted to the white-shrouded skylines sprawling away on the lands to their left, tracing the eclectic silhouettes until they rested upon the decimated outline of the dark structure atop the plateau of the towering mesa.
“Finish rebuilding… the Seireitei… like we said…” Jūshirō replied, thready voice pragmatic. “Then lead on… as Father wished you to…”
“Yama-jii never understood enough.” Shunsui’s baritone was low, choked, yet incongruously petulant. “He raised me and taught me, but ‘twas you who shaped me. All that is good in me, I owe to you. There is a place in my Soul shaped just like you. When your reiatsu ends, I will be following.”
Jūshirō was silent for a while.
Then, with his whisper audibly saddened, “Why… do you always… make this… heavy promise?”
“Because ‘tis the only one I can make,” Shunsui rasped in return, still the same reply as always.
Another silence followed, palpably sorrowed.
At length, with quiet cheer, Jūshirō offered, “Perhaps this time… we may be granted… some mercy… be allowed to… reunite… as brothers again…” Then his thinned frame shook with a soft laugh. “And I hope… next we meet… my mortal vessel will be… more robust…!”
Shunsui snorted, but a smile began curling his stubbled mouth. “Says the one women fall all over themselves just to be in his presence! Some men, too, if you have not noticed by now. And what about the woman of all women? Hanshi-sama loved you since you were sixteen! Me, we could reunite as fellow disciples, friends, lovers, family, even master and pet, I care not as long as we reunite. And as long as my next vessel does not come with such a jealous Zanpakutō Spirit that I am not even allowed to steal a kiss without hearing it for days afterwards! Ai, you are far luckier than I with the twins as your Zanpakutō Spirits!”
“They can be… a handful…” Jūshirō teased. “I doubt… you are the… sort to… tolerate… ancient… child Spirits…”
A distant honk floated from the skies, carried upon the gentle winds.
The frail frame of Jūshirō tensed, and he began to sit up again, a soft smile of welcome spreading across his wan face despite his unsteadiness.
Behind him, however, raw grief cut across Shunsui’s lean, aquiline mien.
“They are… coming…!” breathed Jūshirō with palpable excitement, unaware of his brother’s pain.
Shunsui only tightened his arms in response.
* * * * * * * *
From the distant depths of the shining, glacier-blue skies, a dark dot began to grow, rapidly enlarging until movements could be discerned. Soon, the dark, wavering shape began to resolve into distinct, flapping movements, and then even that became clearer, gaining size and clarity until a flying, bird-like outline could be discerned. Finally, the flying bird drew close enough to reveal great, snow-white wings skirted with ebony outwards from a snow-white body, a long, slender ebony neck, and dark, slim legs outstretched behind in flight.
It was a crane.
The pair of brothers sat waiting with bated breaths, one in anguish, one in anticipation, their two figures distinct upon their colourful pallet on the powdery snow.
As the crane came even closer, its long, rapier-sharp beak began glinting in the silvery sunlight, and it honked once more in greeting, loud and echoing this time, reverberating about the canyon walls as the great bird began circling the expanse of the snow-filled land basin, slanting its body with each pass before them to reveal a flash of a blood-red crown upon a smooth, elegantly curved, white head, and one shining, obsidian eye keenly strobing them from an ebony face.
“A Tanchō Tenzuru[v]…” breathed Jūshirō in wonder.
Shunsui closed his eye. Then lips tightening, he reached out from within the layers of quilts and wound his forearms around the frail form before him, locking his brother tightly against his chest and burying his stubbled face against thick streams of white hair.
Pale, shaking hands rose to cover the hardened muscles of hirsute forearms.
“Shunsui…” Jūshirō began breathlessly.
“Nay, not yet.” The baritone was strangled. “I cannot be as sanguine about this.”
“Ai, my young brother!” The deep tenor was conflicted, strengthened for an instant with deep empathy. Then, trying to alleviate matters, added with cheer, “‘Tis not every day… we see a… Tanchō Tenzuru. Will you… not watch?”
“No.” The reply was obstinate.
Jūshirō bit his lower lip, then silently exhaled and patted the forearms around his middle. Dark gaze returning to the skies, he watched their approaching visitor, his wan face now visibly troubled.
The crane was flying over the snow now, casting a gigantic shadow as it began descending in wide spirals, its wingspan four times as large as the tallest man, and its pure-white body far larger than even the largest male of the wild tanchōzuru of the flat wetlands in the far north. Then, with whispering soft flapping of its great wings despite its enormous size, the giant bird finally swooped low, coming into a running landing, long, slim legs soundlessly spraying cold, white, powder as it rapidly slowed.
It was still in motion when its form suddenly shone with blinding, iridescent light.
When the glare dimmed and passed, in place of the crane, a tall, broad, black-bearded bald man was briskly striding towards them over the powdery snow, his firm steps neither sinking into the deep drifts nor leaving a single trace of his passing upon the loose surface. The sight was no less strange than how he had arrived, for he wore a seemingly awkward pair of very tall, one-toothed, wooden geta on his fleshy bare feet more suited for treading over muddy ground than over deep, loose banks of snow.
Nevertheless, recognition lit the faces of the two brothers.
“Ho, laddie!” the large man greeted in a deep, booming voice as soon as he was within hearing distance.
Then as he came closer, piercing, black eyes could be seen observing them keenly from beneath thick, black brows, their gaze sharp as twin rapier points despite the calm geniality of his broad, fleshy face. His great, black beard gently stirred in the breeze, unveiling glimpses of a wide, hairy chest through the loosened front of his austere black kosode. And as he came to a pause before them, his white, long-sleeved, long haori flapped gently, his long string of huge, vermillion-red prayer beads softly clacking from about his thick neck.
“Greetings… Hyōsube-sama…” Jūshirō smiled held a soft welcome. “It has been… quite a while…”
“Aye, since you were a slip of a laddie of twenty-three,” agreed the big, bald man jovially, with a glint of remembrance in his black eyes. “I have been watching you since your bankai, whether you like it or not.”
Jūshirō chuffed a breathless chuckle. “I was young… and foolish…”
The piercing, black eyes softened as they regarded Jūshirō. “Young you were, indeed. And too soft-hearted, sentimental and naïve. Still too soft-hearted and sentimental for your own good, even if you are no longer naïve. But foolish? Never. The old rascal Genryūsai has the knack of always choosing more wisely than even the best of us, whichever existence he may be in.”
A spark leapt in the depths of Jūshirō’s dark, brilliant eyes. “Choosing…? May…? Then Father… is he…?”
“He is still dead to the Shikonkai, if that is what you asking,” supplied the big, bearded man, then his black eyes glinted with humour. “But elsewhere, now that is another matter. He has become too irascible to quietly wait for his turn…”
Joy lit up Jūshirō’s wan features and for a moment, colour returned to the curves of his white cheeks. “Father… he still lives…!”
“Exists,” corrected the big, bald man, though with kindness. “Lives is a mortal term, meant for mortals.” Then he smiled beneath his beard. “Where you will be going, laddie, you will soon remember all the right terms.”
“Where he will be going? He will be spending eighty years in oblivion!” growled Shunsui, uncharacteristically harsh.
“Slumber, Kyōraku Sōtaichō,” corrected the big man again, sounding a little harder this time. “There is a huge difference. Do you not see that the brother of your Soul has more than earned his rest? Besides, eighty Human years will pass in a mere blink for the likes of us. ‘Tis a fair exchange.”
“Fair?” Shunsui’s expression darkened, becoming almost thunderous. “Fair is if you return him now to the Nyorai-bu, instead of taking him to that horrid chamber up there! I never agreed to any of this!”
“‘Tis my decision…” Jūshirō interjected firmly, calm and resolute even if sorrow shimmered in his dark eyes. “My only regret… is leaving you… but this… is the best way…”
Shunsui said nothing to the soft rebuke, though his pewter eye remained angered.
And hurt.
A deep sigh came from the big, bearded man. Without ceremony, he sank his great girth down onto the snow, seating himself down cross-legged, oddly not stirring even a waft of the icy powder, as if he was not really there.
“Ask yourself this, Kyōraku Sōtaichō,” he began, his deep, booming voice softened to a gentle bass. “Do you truly believe that an eighteen-year-old Human boy would make a good Reiō? As advanced as Ichigo is, as much as he has already done for all of us, he still has not lived the life of an adult, nor bore the responsibilities of an adult. He still does not know the true meaning of being a parent. Or a sensei. And Isshin will have to come home, eventually.”
“But Yhwac– That thing, must it have a vessel? Can you not put it in a jar or something? Take your pick from Mayuri’s stash.”
“I would, if I have a jar that can speak. Or a Reigai or Gigai that will not disintegrate at the touch of that Reiatsu. We have tried everything, Kyōraku Sōtaichō. You know this too. Or do you let Miss Ise Nanao read your reports instead, mmm?”
The chastisement rolled off Shunsui without effect, for he persisted, “How can you be so certain that thing will vacate Jūshirō’s body at the end of eighty years?”
“Because it will completely dissipate before sixty years are up,” informed the big, bearded one. “We have been watching it, and testing it. It has not much sentience or power left. After sixty years, the memories will fade completely and only the habits of decision-making and motor functions will continue, but even those will weaken as time passes. By the time eighty years is complete to the day, the remains of Yhwach’s Reiatsu will only have an additional day left. That one single day will be time enough for Ichigo’s Soul to takeover, as he was always meant to.”
Shunsui looked incredulous. “This means you can wake Jūshirō in sixty years instead! And return him to me!”
“Nay.” It was Jūshirō this time.
Voice trembling with fatigue, he said firmly, “I do not wish to return… to a vessel filled with the habits of Yhwach. Let them dissipate. Let the eighty years… run their course.” Then collapsing against Shunsui, he breathed, “By then… my Life Force… would have… depleted… I cannot… come back…”
“Even if you can, laddie, you must not. The Nyorai-bu is waiting for you,” stressed the big, bearded man, with great gravity. “You have kept your promises through all these Aeons. Done everything asked of you, and much, much more than any Soul like yours should even have to bear. ‘Tis more than enough, laddie. Leave the rest to others. The time has come for you to be free of Tensei.”
Shunsui grew fretful. “But Jūshirō, Mayuri’s surgery, the procedures Hanshi-sama was developing with him, they work! He already brought back so many of us!”
“The waters of Kirinden will work even better,” interjected the big, bearded man. “With Mimihagi gone, there is nothing to impede the healing powers of the waters. Kirinji can cure Jūshirō now far beyond what that hideously invasive process can do.” Then softening greatly, he asked, “But you know as well as I that this is beside the point. Even if Jūshirō’s body is cured, what of his Soul? Do you truly need to be reminded of that?”
At that, Shunsui fell silent.
“Be it by organ transplant or the waters of the Kirinden, neither of our methods will be able to replenish the Life Force taken from Jūshirō. You know this. That was essence of the Kamikake contract and the exchange is immutable. Can you bear to see your brother live out the rest of his days healed with no disease, yet forever an invalid? I know I cannot.” Then the big man smiled kindly beneath his beard. “Like I have been repeating to you for nigh a year and hoping that you will finally hear, while in slumber, his Soul will be safe, secluded in much needed rest.”
Shunsui looked away, finally defeated.
As he stared out unseeingly at the snow-laden canyon, his single, pewter eye began to glisten.
Responding wordlessly, a pale, trembling hand rose and its long fingers began stroking a muscular, hirsute forearm.
The piercing, black eyes flickered as they scrutinised the pair. But then the moment swiftly passed for the bearded one softly, but decisively, said, “Kyōraku Sōtaichō… Shunsui. I do not know if Genryūsai ever told you this. If he did not, I will now. A very long time ago, Ages before this Shikonkai came into existence, before the very concept of Humans was even thought of, a Soul meant for the Nyorai-bu returned to the mortal realms. For out of nothing except pure compassion, it made a vow. It would live countless lives as a mortal among mortals as a teacher, as a guide, as a benefactor to all others, stay and suffer within the cycles of Tensei through endless births, lives, deaths and rebirths, until all mortals have Freed themselves and transcended to higher realms. That one Soul vowed that it would be the last to leave any mortal realm. And when the race of Humans at last appeared, this Soul went among them, to carry out its vow among them. Since then a nigh hundred and thirty Human millennia have passed. And after all these time, the machinations of one Human Soul, Yhwach, at last disrupted this mission. Injuriously. For his doings left this Soul no longer able to carry on. And this is severe enough that for the first time since the Human race began, the Nyorai-bu are intervening. They now wish for this Soul to return to them. To recover. And finally, after Ages of labour and suffering, to rest.”
He paused, black eyes becoming intent upon Shunsui, and gently, but very firmly, finished, “That Jūshirō has given all that he has left now to this one last task, ‘tis not without great risks to all realities, but ‘tis the best way to resolve our difficult situation. The Nyorai-bu are watching, and watching with utmost care. To ensure that this final task will be completed without harm to your brother’s Soul. At the completion of his mission, the Nyorai-bu will be waiting to Free his Soul back to where it belongs, to where his Life Force will be restored and forever safe beyond the cruel touch of the perpetual suffering of Tensei. But for that happy outcome to come to pass, you must first let him go. In your heart. And in your Soul. Free him from all your Clingings, so that his Soul can move on with no more attachment to grieve him. I cannot imagine how hard this must be for you, but the truth is, the brother you are holding so tightly in your arms, he is never meant to be there in the first place, Shunsui. Jūshirō’s Soul was never meant to be mortal.”
Shunsui made a strangled sound. When he looked back at the big, bearded man, his pewter eye was desolate. “Ichibē-sama, I need no one to tell me that! I first met Jūshirō when I was ten years old, when I found him in Hanshi-sama’s herb gardens burying withered snowdrops. He wore such terrible sadness, so I told him that boys did not weep for dead flowers. But he said he could not bear to pretend that nothing bad had happened. Chōjirō-jisan heard us, and that night he drew me aside and told me that it takes a greater strength to cry than to pretend nothing bad has happened. From that day on, I realised that the boy in Hanshi-sama’s sick rooms was not like the rest of us. And the two thousand years which followed only proved me right over and over again. Though I could never understand it, I always accepted it.” Then his arms clutched his brother even more, visibly desperate now. Bowing his face against the crook of a pale neck, he went on, hoarsely, “But I am understanding it now and… and I am not accepting it! I am not you, Jūshirō, I do not have it in me to let you go! This is the greatest Clinging of all… How can loving one’s own Soul be a cause for such great pain?”
A white hand rose and laid gently upon Shunsui’s dark, wavy crown. “You are… much stronger… than you know… my young brother…” The long, pale fingers began carding through the unruly strands with a rhythm they were clearly long accustomed to. “Please… understand… with the life left in me… I do not wish... to linger like this… for a hundred years… unable to even sit… Ichigo-kun… is too young… he needs to live his Human life… raise a family… experience love… like we had… I can spend... the last of my strength… to take his place... for a time... give him... the life... he deserves to have...”
Shunsui only tightened his embrace.
The large, bearded man watched the pair in silence, a deep and ancient recognition rising in his black eyes.
At length, he shifted slightly, one hand reaching into his kosode and withdrawing a small object.
As he slowly opened his fist, a brilliant, blinding golden light blazed.
There was a tiny, incredibly bright, golden bead floating within the heart of a small, crystal cube resting upon his large, fleshy palm.
Jūshirō’s dark eyes widened, and for an instant, their starlit depths flashed with pure, white, diamanté light.
“I know… that light…!” he breathed, stunned.
Shunsui raised his head, a glistening track running down from his pewter eye. He stared at the tiny, brilliant, golden bead, then hesitantly, admitted, “Me too, my gentle brother… I know it too…”
“Humans gave these relics the name Busshari[vi],” explained Ichibē. “We adopted the same term long ago, for it is perfectly apt. Human followers of the Nyorai-bu have long believed Busshari to be the mortal ashes of their teachers who attained Freedom from Tensei and left the mortal realms to join the Nyorai-bu. Most worship these beads as sacred, build shrines and temples to house them and pray to them. They believe that Busshari contain all the knowledge and wisdom left behind by their Freed teachers. But only very few know what these beads truly are.
“What are they?” Shunsui asked, compelled despite his pain and grief.
“Eternal receptacles of the memories and emotions of the Souls who made them,” Ichibē smiled. “They are coalesced into solid, physical states out of the reiryoku of Souls who possess adequate power to precipitate them into tangibility. Thus, each Busshari in existence is perfectly unique, for each is unique to the Soul who created it.”
“Whose was this, then?” Shunsui asked, a sudden light of speculation in his pewter eye.
“I am not surprised you asked that question, even if this golden light is familiar to you.” The deep bass was strangely sad. “You must know, there are Busshari… and then there are Busshari. There are very few which possess the power to share their memories with the right Soul who touches them. This particular Busshari, is one of such few.”
“And I suppose you wish us to touch this one?” Shunsui surmised.
“Because you asked a very good question, Shunsui. As I expected you would, which is why I brought this with me. Call it my attempt to ease your grief, lad. Love, in all its forms, is a positive thing, ne? Yet, how can loving any Soul, much less one’s own Soul, be a cause for such great pain? How can love be considered as suffering at all? I can tell you all the answers, of course, but how will you hear them? Will you hear them only as mere theories, far removed from any real effect on your Soul? Yours is a much higher Awareness than Humans, but even so you are still in the thrall of the Three Delusions which keep you endlessly trapped within the cycles of Tensei. The only way you will be able to truly understand, is if you experience these memories and their emotions as though they are your own.”
The single, pewter eye watched the golden bead warily.
“I have kept this one for a very long time,” Ichibē added. “You will not be able to imagine how long it has really been. The best I can describe it to you is, I made this promise long before even the first light of the Shikonkai was birthed in the crucible of its sun. My vow is to present this at a time when circumstances are right.” He raised his other hand and, despite the largeness of his fingers, deftly flicked opened the top of the little cube. Then he held it out to the pair before him. “These are now the right circumstances.”
A white, unsteady hand began to reach towards the cube, only to be captured in a larger, tanned one.
“Nay, let me go first, Jūshirō,” Shunsui cautioned. “If it hurts, it will hurt me, not you.”
“It will not hurt you,” Ichibē assured. But then, solemnly, added, “However, I suggest both of you touch it at the same time. The burdens of memories are heavy at best, but the burden of these particular memories are… let us just say that they are beyond the ken of mortals. ‘Tis best you share them. Burdens shared are burdens halved, as Humans like to say.”
Jūshirō looked at the tiny size of the bead with great doubt. “But… ‘tis so small…”
“Cup both each of your palms together,” Ichibē suggested. “I will let the bead fall between them, and both of you close your palms together at the same time to catch it.”
“I am… slow now…” Jūshirō began, visibly daunted.
“I will close our palms,” Shunsui said. “You only have to keep your hand open.”
Brightening, Jūshirō held out his hand again, holding his palm open.
Carefully, Shunsui aligned the outer edge of his own palm against the outer edge of his brother’s pale one. Reaching out his other hand, he laid it flat over the back of Jūshirō’s opened palm, then tilted both their hands together to form a small crevice.
Then he nodded at the big, bearded man.
Wordlessly, Ichibē leaned forward and carefully, tilted the cube over the two conjoined palms.
Like a shining, golden, liquid drop, the busshari fell.
[i] Nyorai-bu /neo-rye-buh/ (KN: 如来部) means ‘Pantheon Of Buddhas’, with Nyorai /neo-rye/ (KN: 如来) meaning ‘Buddha’, the highest being, while the suffix -bu /buh/ (KN:部) is a collective noun to refer to a pantheon.
[ii] Shikonkai /shee-kon-kai/ (KN: 尸し魂こん界) means ‘Realm for the Souls of the Dead’, the non-Anglicised term for Soul Society.
[iii] Gense /ghen-say/ (KN: 現世) means ‘Living World’.
[iv] Tensei /ten-say/ (KN: 転てん生) means reincarnation.
[v] Tanchō Tenzuru /tan-cho ten-zu-ruh/ (KN: 丹頂天鶴) means ‘Heavenly Red-Crowned Crane’. Ten /ten/ (KN: 天) means ‘Heavenly’ or ‘Celestial’ as one of the character’s many meanings. Therefore ordinary red-crowned cranes are called Tanchōzuru /tan-cho-zu-ruh/ (KN: 丹頂鶴).
[vi] Busshari /buh-sha-ree/ (KN: 仏ぶ舎っしゃ利り) is the translation of the Sanskrit term ‘Śarīra’, believed to be the ashes of the Buddha and masters who have achieved Nirvana.