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1. SODE NO SHIRAYUKI
“Your wielder is just as beautiful as mine,” says Sode no Shirayuki, and Ichigo replies by snorting the hot chocolate he is slurping up his nose.
Hacking unpleasantly, the auburn zanpakuto blushes at the perplexed expression the other spirit turns towards him. Through lavender hair of silk, the pale woman watches him blubber and curse as the boiling liquid seeps into his shadowy cloak, but she doesn’t move any closer to assist him. Ichigo figures this is probably the safest course of action – everything about Sode no Shirayuki is pure, from the flawless white of her kimono to the young shine to her eyes; warm when they should be cold, and startlingly bright. Though they both know that any stains upon their ethereal clothing will disappear once they return to their respective domains, Ichigo is sure his friend would rather not spent the rest of the conversation looking like half a Dalmatian.
(She could be half anything and she would still be the most attractive woman he’s ever met, but still).
“I do not understand why you continue to subject yourself to such a mess,” says the snowy zanpakuto spirit, wrinkling her nose as the midnight sea of Ichigo’s cloak churns and rolls to consume the dollops of hot chocolate splattered across it.
“I like chocolate,” Ichigo protests, carefully taking another sip of what remains of his drink. Upon realising that it’s out of luck, his robe settles back down around him, shimmering an awaiting darkness. Ichigo sticks his tongue out at it and nurses the drink protectively. “And I like Zangetsu too, but I don’t think I’ve ever thought of him as beautiful.”
Sode no Shirayuki laughs at his ruffled expression and casts her gaze back across the training grounds. In the dirt arena below, her wielder is battling the Sixth Division lieutenant. Neither officer has drawn their blade, but instead the little raven-haired lieutenant is beating her friend into the ground with an array of lightning-fast kido. It’s an unfair fight, Ichigo knows, but exceedingly amusing to watch from their seats in the viewing stalls. Sode no Shirayuki is enjoying herself, at any least, although her ghostly being is gleaming with a crystalline air that implies she itches to get involved with the contest herself. Ichigo, on the other hand, is happy to laze around, although if Zangetsu were to make a move from his watchful point just a few spaces away, his fire would be swift to join his wielder’s intentions.
“You just cannot see it,” Sode no Shirayuki explains, gesturing towards the back of Zangetsu’s head. One of her gigantic sleeves of snow sways with the movement, and Ichigo automatically leans so that it glides past him, the chill of her spirit hardly brushing against his burn. It is a practiced movement from the years of their friendship, and neither zanpakuto even blinks at it. “You’re just not looking in the right places.”
“I dunno,” Ichigo says, mumbling into the rim of the cup. “Pretty sure I’ve looked in every place.”
Icy eyes stare astonishment at him. Ichigo very nearly drops the last of his hot chocolate in sheer mortification.
“Not like that! It was accidentally!” he blurts, desperate to rid the flabbergast from her usually tranquil demeanour. “Kind of! Oh come on – we have the same soul, I’m going to see things I shouldn’t from time to time. You can’t tell me you’ve never seen Rukia’s –”
His cup explodes, shattering in a thousand knives of ice and snow, and the fiery zanpakuto shrieks in terror, his cloak enfolding ethereal armour around him. The air between them plunges to sub-zero with Sode no Shirayuki’s frozen wrath. Ichigo laughs nervously to quell her rage, but her eyes remain as hard as diamonds, and her expression solidifies into a sheet as cold as ice.
Ichigo’s cloak shakes disgruntledly and the glass-like splinters scatter.
Oh shit, Ichigo thinks. He launches to his feet and throws the remaining shards of his drink into oblivion. Sode no Shirayuki doesn’t rise with him, but her gaze warns of a blizzard as it follows the terrified brown of his own. The shadowy zanpakuto swallows his nerves at the glare and decides that his next action should be the most sensible option – the only option – available to him.
There is an indignant huff from the sparkling zanpakuto. The young lieutenant’s call of Dance, Sode no Shirayuki! is the last thing Ichigo hears before his shadows engulf him and whisk him back to his inner world.
Zangetsu has just enough time to roll his eyes before great pillars of ice rush into the stalls and crash about him, hurling the icy zanpakuto’s irritation across the grounds. Ichigo offers a short apology into his partner’s mind as they’re forced to abandon their perch, but the shinigami merely inclines his head and reaches down for the scarlet-tinted hilt of his zanpakuto’s blade.
“Are you sorry enough to let them win?” Zangetsu asks aloud.
Don’t be stupid, Ichigo retorts, calling forth a wildfire to match Sode no Shirayuki’s hail. Let’s kick their arses.
The shinigami hums his acceptance and steps forward with a flicker of shadow. His shunpo is silent but his shikai is a roar of a blaze and the crackle of ice splintering against it.
Ichigo knows Sode no Shirayuki is going to absolutely murder him later, but he will endure such torture for Zangetsu’s happiness.
And maybe he will learn to keep his mouth shut the next time.
2. MINAZUKI
He’s a shadow in the corner, trapped and exposed by the light of the four white walls. Knees tucked tight to his chest, his auburn hair is sandy and flat across his expression; the strands, candles dimmed at the end of their life, shield his eyes from the empty void about him. Ichigo gives a shuddering breath and buries his face further into his robe. Darkness, slow and cautious against the bleached-white sterile of the room, gathers itself closer to the zanpakuto, wrapping the young spirit in the night’s infinite comfort. The robe moves carefully across the boy’s figure, wary not to irritate the bruises in Ichigo’s bones and the cracks in his demeanour. Outwardly, the zanpakuto has hardly been injured, but wounds claw inwards and stain reishi particles with blood and terror for years.
The medical ward ignores the zanpakuto. Merely a passing thought; a flicker and a spark, Ichigo almost ceases to exist in the material world. He still burns as bright as darkness can, but only a few individuals will see his flames breathing in the air. In the medicinal fog of the Fourth Division, Zangetsu’s health teeters in the hands of the healers – all Ichigo can do is wait for salvation, and pray that the agony of his soul will pass sooner rather than later.
Too dosed to register the pain, Zangetsu slumbers away morphine dreams.
Curled on the floor with his back to the corner, Ichigo trembles for them both. Everything hurts, but he will endure the pain for his wielder’s sake, and consider it punishment for failing to protect the one that matters most. If he had been faster, and stronger, and more prepared, than maybe Zangetsu would be whole, and wholly well in his own bed, dosed on his favourite tea rather than Captain Unohana’s favourite anaesthetic.
Ichigo is glad that the Gotei Thirteen’s chief healer is as adept as she is. Many-a-time has Zangetsu walked healthy from the division solely because the captain has refused to let him limp his way home. She is determined and frightening, and Ichigo only has the utmost respect for her. This doesn’t change the fact that he would rather never see her; she is proof of his flaws, and plenty evidence to suggest that he is a meagre example of a zanpakuto.
The teen-like spirit winces through another wave of pain, gasping through clenched teeth and screwing his eyes shut at the onslaught. As such, he misses the appearance of the gas, poisonous green and squeezing in through the crack in the door, until it is wafting through his hair and tickling the shadows of his cloak. Startling at the sight of it, Ichigo strikes his head against the wall, and a long, crooked mouth opens up in front of his eyes to laugh at his misfortune.
“Minazuki,” he breathes, blinking through the faint glow of his golden fringe.
A single olive eye rolls around in the gas before him, inspecting the hunch of his shoulders and the pale sickness of his face with swift, darting motions. Ichigo flushes under the scrutiny and tries to sit a little straighter, but the vaporous zanpakuto flicks him with her tail and stares disapproval into his soul.
Laughing nervously, he watches as Minazuki gradually solidifies into her typical manta ray form. She remains small enough to fit in the room, but as her smile continues stretching until it has grown nearly as long as Ichigo’s arm, he hopes his companion isn’t entertaining thoughts of devouring him.
“Ichigo,” she greets, settling down by his feet. Intimidated, Ichigo’s shawl folds itself away from Minazuki’s reach, and the human-like zanpakuto swallows his nerves at the manta ray’s terrifying smile.
He croaks a hello and winces when the word burns up his throat, blistering the welcome with suffering. Minazuki’s gaze flits across his form, her lone eye narrowing as his shoulders continue to shake. Ichigo does his best to smile for his friend, but with the other half of his soul weakened and worn, the effort to maintain the façade is overwhelming.
Minazuki sighs and curls her spindly tail around his arm. Ichigo allows her to tug his body apart, his arms groaning with the movement. Once satisfied with his new position, the manta ray glides into his lap and wobbles until she is comfortable. Laughing despite himself, the fiery zanpakuto waits until she is settled to rest a hand atop her head and drum his fingers into her misty skin.
“You’re one-point-seven degrees warmer than you usually are,” Minazuki informs him. “Your structural reishi is wavering in your upper chest and shoulder areas, and your reiryoku is trying to compensate for the damage – that’s why you’re feeling the strain. Your wielder fractured his scapula and sternum, did he not? And I believe his right tibia had been cracked – are you having trouble walking?”
“Haven’t really tried,” Ichigo mumbles. Ever since a pair of Captain Unohana’s minions brought Zangetsu back from surgery, the weary zanpakuto has been collapsed in a corner. How long ago that was exactly is beyond Ichigo – not only is he convinced time flows differently in the material world, but the walls of the Fourth Division confine a void, as if trapping all occupants in their own separate time zone of misery.
It feels like Zangetsu has been sleeping forever.
(Ichigo hates anaesthetic).
“Are you going to eat me?” he asks. He certainly hopes not. Minazuki has used her – frankly disturbing – healing ability on Zangetsu many times before, but Ichigo still finds himself averting his eyes just seconds before she swallows his wielder’s stormy mop of hair. It is far by the freakiest thing he’s ever seen and it totally creeps him out.
“Don’t be silly,” Minazuki reprimands, her eye rolling about. “You simply need some rest while your reishi readjusts itself. Sitting here putting strain on your body isn’t helping, so I suggest you return to your sanctuary and sleep.”
Ichigo fidgets under the weight of her stare. Despite her small size, kind voice, and stress-ball squishiness, Minazuki’s words are nearly compelling enough to make him disregard his worries and follow her orders down to the tee. Yet his hesitation betrays him, and the gentle manta ray sighs her understanding, lime-green breath seeping into the pleats of Ichigo’s cloak.
Some of his pain eases.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and although he knows that her advice is sound, returning to his inner world to face the blank emptiness of Zangetsu’s consciousness is the last thing Ichigo wants. Even when Zangetsu sleeps, he is there – a voice (a snore) at the edge of Ichigo’s domain. But when he is drugged (for his safety, Ichigo knows), there is nothing, and all Ichigo can do is hide himself away in their memories until their inner world reforms itself; clouds begin to drift again, and the sea starts to churn with the complexity of Zangetsu’s thoughts.
“It has been many, many years since I’ve been in your situation,” Minazuki admits, one of her wings reaching out to tap the other zanpakuto’s chest. “I can help your body to sleep, if that will makes things easier for you.”
Feeling somewhat guilty, Ichigo inclines his golden head towards her. He dares not ask her about her past with Captain Unohana, and instead mumbles his thanks for the help. If Minazuki says something in reply, then Ichigo doesn’t catch it, her words lost to the haze of light growing brighter and brighter until the walls are painted green and the edges of his vision fade as he succumbs to darkness.
Minazuki curls up in his lap and stays awhile.
3. RYŪJIN JAKKA
Usually, if one wanted to speak to another zanpakuto, the most logical course of action would be to locate said zanpakuto’s wielder and just generally hover around until the spirit you needed to converse with realised. This is the method Ichigo uses, at any least, and over the years, he has become particularly skilled at getting himself noticed. He has also perfected his knowledge of which methods to inflict upon each zanpakuto to maximise his chances, and in the case of Ryūjin Jakka, this is to never approach Genryusai Yamamoto while he sleeps.
Never ever.
Not even once in a million years.
This means that, on the off chance that Ichigo wishes to speak to the almighty fire spirit (and this really is an off chance), there is little he can do to request an audience but to pace outside the First Division barracks as fretfully as possible.
Sometimes Ryūjin Jakka awakens.
…And sometimes he doesn’t.
On these occasions, Ichigo remains a constant presence at the gates until daybreak, so that when he is noticed and scolded at by Ryūjin Jakka, he can just turn around and guilt-trip the great dragon into listening to his woes.
Because that’s what Ichigo talks to him about.
And it works every time.
It is approaching midnight when Ichigo heaves a sigh and climbs up the gate wall to make himself comfortable. He hasn’t been waiting terribly long, but the Captain-Commander is typically asleep by such an hour, which reduces his chances of encountering the zanpakuto spirit any time soon. Yet already committed to waiting it out, Ichigo gathers his cloak around him and wiggles into the brick, shushing the igneous shadows when they spill out of his arms and splatter down the wall in murky globules. No doubt they’re throwing a tantrum, and Ichigo rolls his eyes.
His relationship with Ryūjin Jakka is odd. Firstly, because there is some form of relationship there – most zanpakuto avoid the monstrous inferno in fear of being reduced to a pile of ashes, but Ichigo, who has frequently been informed that he’s an impulsive moron, takes the dragon’s fierce countenance in stride. Secondly, because it’s less of a relationship and more of a tolerance that somehow evolved into mutual respect and something akin to this-might-be-a-mentor/student-relationship-and-we’re-to-never-speak-of-it.
They don’t speak of it.
In fact, nobody speaks it of bar whispers in the dawn and questioning eyes at dusk.
The colossal presence that burns in the heart of the division moves then, and Ichigo nearly tumbles from the gate in his surprise. Catching his robe beneath him in his haste to survey his surroundings, the ginger zanpakuto has to un-tug his shadows before he can swing his legs over the side of the wall. As such, Ryūjin Jakka’s serpentine flare coils itself around the gateway arch and lowers the gigantic jaws towards Ichigo before the youthful zanpakuto can dismount, and Ichigo promptly jumps a foot in the air and yelps loud enough to startle a laugh from the ancient spirit.
“Heya Ryu-jii!” the human-like zanpakuto greets, very slightly inclining his head to the blazing dragon. There isn’t much in the way of hierarchy in the world of the zanpakuto, but if any deserve even a little respect, it is one as old as Ryūjin Jakka.
“Child,” complains the spirit, the flames that hold him together wavering as he sighs. “I’ve asked you to please stop calling me that.”
Ichigo’s reply hardly takes a beat. “Yeah sure, Jakka-jii it is then.”
“You –”
“Jakka-jii,” Ichigo repeats, slowly emphasising the nickname. It’s rude of him to interrupt, he knows, but his manners are situational and Ryūjin Jakka has long since grown accustomed to the lack of formalities. “Can I ask you something?”
The dragon tilts his head, conceding, and glides close enough that his sparks of his fire scorch against Ichigo’s cloak. “I envisioned that was why you are here,” he says, peering at the littler zanpakuto with scarlet eyes. “What troubles you?”
“It’s about Zangetsu.”
Ryūjin Jakka hums. “This relates to your wielder’s mission today?”
“Yes,” Ichigo says. He nods and stuffs his hands up his sleeves, pulling the molten darkness around him comfortingly. If the other zanpakuto notices the action, he makes no verbal suggestion of such, although the firestorm trail coiled around the gate shifts closer, and Ryūjin Jakka’s head circles around Ichigo’s gloomy form.
They don’t speak of their relationship, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
“Am I selfish to not want to teach Zangetsu how to use all of my power yet?” Ichigo asks, sighing deeply into the flames. They flutter in his breath like candles crying in the wind, but nothing will ever be powerful enough to snuff the serpent’s form. “I almost lost him today because we weren’t strong enough, but we could have been if I had just…” Ichigo shakes his head, flicking shadows across Ryūjin Jakka’s nose. “But he’s not ready for everything yet.”
“Is he not?” asks the dragon.
Ichigo frowns, confused. “I don’t understand,” he admits, narrowing his eyes at the brightness of his companion’s figure. He feels small and young next to the ancient being, but he deepens his scowl to hide his weakness. “It’s my power.”
Ryūjin Jakka makes a sound Ichigo has come to hate – one that implies he knew exactly what Ichigo had been going to say. “How strange,” mutters the dragon, sounding far more amused than he has any right to. “I thought a zanpakuto and a shinigami shared their powers. I thought you were one of the same. Endlessly whole. Why are you differentiating between you?”
Pondering the nature of Ryūjin Jakka’s words, the darkness spirit hums, wondering if he’s being asked a trick question.
“You only know as much as he is capable of knowing,” the elder zanpakuto continues, amusement heavy on his tongue like the smog of a beast, waiting to burn. “When your wielder grows, you will grow. And when he is ready to learn, you will be ready to teach. Do you have something to teach him?”
The other nods, muttering yes.
Ryūjin Jakka mirrors the motion, although his head quakes against the division gate where Ichigo’s simply tilted. “You know exactly what it is?”
“Yes,” Ichigo repeats, firmer this time.
The dragon’s laughter puffs scorching smoke into Ichigo’s face, tousling hair of golden hues. “Then why have you not told him? Aren’t you one? Do you not know what he knows? Does he not know what you know?”
Quite frankly, Ichigo feels pretty dumb right about now. “He’s ready, isn’t he?” he mutters, plastering a hand across his face to hide his humiliation from his mentor.
Ryūjin Jakka rumbles a laugh anyway, his scales spitting sparks of fire to expose Ichigo’s expression to the night. “Is he ready?”
Ichigo answers with a groan. Hazelnut fury glares through the gaps in his fingers. “I am being selfish aren’t I?”
“Are you?”
“Oh my god you’re so unhelpful.”
Ryūjin Jakka does his best not to look offended. “Unfortunately, child, these are questions I cannot answer for certainty. Every soul lives their life differently, and how Shigekuni and I became strong is not the same way that you and your wielder will become strong.”
Ichigo figures that’s the best answer he’s going to get, and while he doesn’t feel entirely satisfied, some of his anxiety has mellowed in the presence of the dragon. “No-one is ever going to be as strong as you, Jakka-jii,” he mutters, swatting more shadows towards the zanpakuto. One gloopy droplet splatters on Ryūjin Jakka’s cheek, and it fizzles and hisses into the inferno before evaporating back into Ichigo’s flaming reiatsu. “But thanks, I guess.”
Ryūjin Jakka nods his head, returning the farewell.
Pulling his shawl back together, Ichigo reaches out for Zangetsu’s reiryoku. His wielder is still asleep in his quarters, blissfully unaware of his zanpakuto’s midnight wandering. Relieved, Ichigo bows one last time to the dragon, and sets off.
An invisible protector burning like the sun, the most feared zanpakuto in the entire Soul Society hums considerately as his companion pushes off from the wall and steps into the darkness, disappearing under the moonlight.
“Perhaps,” he says. “But perhaps not."
4. SŌGYO NO KOTOWARI
Rubbing one hand across his chin, Ichigo tilts his head sideways, inspecting his work. The breeze of his urban domain whispers about him, twisting through his auburn mane and prompting the choppy strands to dance happily. Humming in response to the gales, Ichigo leans the other way for a second viewpoint and narrows his eyes. Before him, the great glass building reflects back his reservation; a black and orange blob atop a stone skyscraper, the zanpakuto shakes his head with a sigh.
“I dunno,” he ponders, tapping his chin. “It’s a bit… shiny, don’t you think?”
The only answer he receives is one side of his cloak dolloping into the concrete roof and merging around his foot, engulfing it hungrily. Grumbling, Ichigo kicks his shadows away and yanks his robe further up his shoulders, tutting at it resentfully. He has long since become used to his robe’s odd behaviour; although he’s certain that its sentience has developed over the years, and the zanpakuto doesn’t know if he should be worried or not.
“Stop it,” he hisses, scowling down at the dripping ends of the evening fabric. “I get it, you don’t like it. You don’t have to ruin my shoes because you don’t agree with my interior design – and you definitely can’t throw a tantrum over my fashion sense when you are literally my fashion epitomised you ridiculous piece of –”
One swift kick scoops up the shadows and sends them soaring along the length of the skyscraper. Triumph colours the zanpakuto’s cheeks for the two seconds it takes him to notice the miniature forms of silver and turquoise against the monochrome backdrop; dread forcing him to cower behind his hands, there is little Ichigo can do but wait and listen for the childish shrieks. The shadows, so innocently uninnocent, find their target with a splat, and Ichigo dares not peer through his hands to see Sōgyo no Kotowari’s ensuing expression.
The giggly laughter says it all, really.
“Kido fight! Kido fight! Ichi-chan wants to play!”
“Oh god,” Ichigo breathes, sliding his hands from his eyes to his mouth, groaning all the while. Approaching fast, Sōgyo no Kotowari’s double trouble spirit cheers and high-fives each other, their hats toppling with the ecstatic motion. They laugh at one another, pointing fingers and sticking out tongues, and then wave at Ichigo as they continue to jump around.
“Ichi-chan, Ichi-chan!”
Hardly having enough time to brace himself before two squirming masses of zanpakuto launch themselves at him, Ichigo’s breath escapes him as he’s flung to the ground. Sōgyo no Kotowari isn’t particularly heavy by any means, but their boundlessly wriggling knees and elbows are just small and sharp enough to drive into all of the painful places upon Ichigo’s body. One might argue that they’re simply children, oblivious to the bruises mounting beneath them, but Ichigo knows how devilish Sōgyo no Kotowari truly is. He would bet that they know exactly how much mischief they are causing.
“Alright, alright,” Ichigo says, trying to sound menacing even as his voice wavers and wheezes. “That’s enough – up you get.”
Both of the toddler-like beings pout with dramatics known only to children, but obediently scramble away when Ichigo tries to move feeling back into his legs. Muttering thanks for small mercies, the fiery zanpakuto heaves himself up and makes a show of brushing himself down, sliding his fingers through the molten darkness of his cloak and enjoying the feel of it reluctantly dropping away from his skin. When he glances back over to where Sōgyo no Kotowari has plopped itself down, emerald eyes wide and mouths hanging open, eagerly waiting, Ichigo has to fight to keep the scowl on his face.
Sōgyo no Kotowari’s two childish forms are annoying, but he has never once denied that they’re pretty cute.
He’s not going to admit that to their faces though. No matter how round and blubbery and adorable they are.
“Kido fight?” one of them asks, peering through thick strands of silver hair. The other one nods so enthusiastically that his giant hat tips forward over his eyes; he screams and smacks his hands over where his eyes used to be, and his partner shrieks in unison.
Save me, Ichigo pleas.
(Zangetsu, the fucker, merely responds with a laugh and offers Captain Ukitake another cup of tea).
Swearing under his breath, Ichigo reaches out and yanks the oversized fabric away from his guest. When two sets of green eyes stare happiness and awe at him, the reluctant host rolls his eyes and plonks the hat back onto its owner’s head, adjusting it carefully.
Previously-hatless jumps forward and attaches himself to Ichigo’s neck, screeching thank you thank you thank you into his ear. Not-hatless quickly joins his counterpart, and soon they are clambering all across Ichigo’s cloak, their toes and fingers sticking into the shadows and spraying darkness across the skyscraper windows.
Ichigo allows himself a little smirk. Serves you right, he thinks to his robe.
The robe says nothing, but Zangetsu’s laughter is so abrupt that the captain drops a teapot over a table, burning his sweet-dealing companion in the process.
Sōgyo no Kotowari goes very, very still.
“Kido fight?” they ask, and this time, their stares just a fraction away from Ichigo’s nose, they look positively dangerous.
“Um,” says the other zanpakuto.
In the far reach of his consciousness, he hears Zangetsu wish him good luck.
5. KATEN KYŌKOTSU
Of all of the zanpakuto that Ichigo has come to know – his friends, his allies, and those he avoids at all costs – Katen Kyōkotsu is by far the most dangerous. Despite her formidable power and the calculating, intimidating laziness that she shares with her wielder, she has never done him harm. Revealing her strength in only the more dire of circumstances, Katen Kyōkotsu doesn’t spar for enjoyment nor raise her blade to settle disputes – her glare, sharper than the razor of her tongue, is enough to send all manners of brutes and thugs fleeing from the scene.
Nobody is stupid enough to question her power – not even Ichigo, who enjoys testing his skills against those far superior than he.
(Katen Kyōkotsu likes it that way).
Yet she entices hazardous pastimes in another way; one Ichigo is more familiar with, and this is just as treacherous for invited parties as sparring against the legendary duo of women would be.
“So… why am I here again?” Ichigo asks, eyeing the sake bottle that slides across the table towards him. He has made himself comfy on the sofa in the Eighth Division office but he’s not sure why – fleeing back to Zangetsu sounds like a wonderful idea, but there’s something predatory about Katen Kyōkotsu’s glare that is cementing his feet to the ground.
As the taller half of the dual zanpakuto flicks one of her violet curls over her shoulder, Ichigo’s cloak shimmers nervously.
He pats it comforting and tries to hide his terror when the sleeves cling to his hands and refuse to let go.
“You have better things to be doing?” Katen Kyōkotsu asks.
Ichigo definitely doesn’t hesitate. “Er. No?”
The purple-shrouded woman nods, her elegant coils of hair swaying beside the jagged headpiece atop her crown. The skull upon her kimono creases into a fearsome deformation of teeth and bone as she gestures for him to open the bottle. Silent in the other occupied seat, Katen Kyōkotsu’s slighter counterpart lays out the rest of the crockery, and although Ichigo feels compelled to help, he can’t tell which behaviour is currently acceptable under the other zanpakuto’s superior eye.
“Well then,” says Katen Kyōkotsu, smiling as she pours herself her first of what’s probably going to be many saucers of sake. “Drink with me.”
Ichigo likes to think he doesn’t often cave in to peer pressure.
Being in Captain Kyoraku’s zanpakuto presence is definitely the exception.
Some hours later he has lost count of how much liquid inhibition-wrecker (wait wait – inhibition-destroyer sounds so much cooler) he has consumed. The fiery zanpakuto would estimate a fair amount if asked, but with Katen Kyōkotsu being his drinking-buddy, the chance of hearing that question at any point is laughably slim.
“More?” he asks, cutting into whatever topic of conversation Katen Kyōkotsu has decided they should discuss next (not that her words are making it past the alcoholic haze fogging up Ichigo’s ears).
“As much as you please,” her plum-purple lips reply, and Ichigo nods along to the movements of her mouth, wondering if such a colour would clash with his hair.
(Most things clash with his hair but still, an otherworldly spirit with aging difficulties and an impulsive problem to match can dream, can’t he?)
He reaches for the sake and – aha! It’s on the left. To the left of left. Somewhere left he thinks. Shaking hands smack against the table in sluggish succession, desperately searching for the bottle. Tongue clenched between teeth and eyes narrowed in disjointed contemplation, Ichigo whines pitifully when one steady, violet-robed hand swipes the bottle from the table and pours another drink just above his field of view.
“Oh shush,” Katen Kyōkotsu says, one eye glancing down at him critically. “You can have some in a moment. You’re taking far too long to make up your mind.”
Ichigo giggles his consent and flops back into the sofa. The back of his skull thwacks against the headrest, but the zanpakuto merely laughs some more and waves his hands in the general direction of the table for the sake.
He’s completely sloshed.
The quieter half of Katen Kyōkotsu glances between them both but says nothing to suggest her disapproval. Ichigo takes this as all the incentive he needs to continue drinking, and if he regrets it in the morning… Well. Tomorrow never comes or something like that.
Zangetsu will be mad. Zangetsu’s mad face will be mad. Madly mad. So mad that he’s never going to let Ichigo drink again, but it is his own fault, the zanpakuto thinks. He was the one who made the comment about the ability of zanpakuto to achieve intoxication, and can Ichigo just say that he has definitely achieved something tonight.
The sake bottle wobbles in his hand, splashing alcohol across the table. Some lands in his cup, which is perfect, but he’s laughing too hard to make the connection between the drink and his mouth, and instead he snorts the sake up his nose.
He sneezes it back out and the corner of the table erupts in a fiery blaze of scarlet darkness.
Mesmerised brown eyes stare at it until Katen Kyōkotsu swipes her hand across the burning wood and the flames disperse in a gust of wind.
“As amusing as it is to watch you,” she says, sipping her own drink elegantly. “My wielder will not be pleased if you destroy his office. Please ensure you have control over your reiatsu at all times.”
“I shall entwine it with my body,” Ichigo replies stupidly, thinking retrospectively that the words didn’t sound half as suggestive in his mind as they do on his tongue.
“Acceptable,” says the other.
“You’re acceptable.”
The shorter woman, who has said a grand total of three words throughout the entire evening, decides this is a good time to depart, her only visible eye rolling with the greatest display of emotions that Ichigo has ever seen from her. Mumbling some excuse that Ichigo doesn’t catch, the skull-adorned zanpakuto spirit leaves them to continue wrecking their sobriety, and the male spirit cannot help but think that it’s probably the wisest decision anyone has made all evening.
But he’s not certain about that. Drowning themselves in Katen Kyōkotsu’s endless supply of alcohol has been a wise decision too, and that’s way more fun than what the girl-like spirit has been doing instead – not that Ichigo’s really sure what this is either.
He realises she has been quietly plotting their demise when she returns some time later with Captain Kyoraku and Zangetsu in tow. Much to Ichigo’s humiliation Zangetsu walks in wearing his sleeping yukata, and although he knows Kyoraku cannot see him when the captain rumbles a bellowing laugh, the shadowy zanpakuto still blushes and stammers an excuse to the flowery shinigami.
“Delightful,” Kyoraku says after his zanpakuto relays Ichigo’s message.
Zangetsu’s expression definitely doesn’t agree with his friend’s verdict.
As much as he would like to blabber an excuse, Ichigo can’t really say he hadn’t expected his wielder’s disapproving response. Eager to cheer his partner up, the burning youth gives a little smile and stumbles his way across the room like a puppy, his shadows dolloping sporadically across the floorboards.
Zangetsu gives him a long, hard look and refuses to talk to him for the rest of the evening.
(Retrospectively, Ichigo wonders if offering the sake bottle to lift his wielder’s spirits might not have been the best thing to do).
6. ENGETSU
“You share remarkable physical similarities with my wielder,” is the first thing the sapphire phoenix says to Ichigo, perching himself down on the rooftop where the young zanpakuto has enveloped himself in darkness and silence, and is enjoying the comforts of the evening.
Ichigo doesn’t say anything for a short while. The bird burns as he does; eternally and impossibly bright, but where Ichigo’s being is shrouded in shadows, the phoenix is white flame fashioned into magnificence. As hot as the sun but as beautiful and blue as the moon, the phoenix zanpakuto is the cosmos confined. Ichigo is the darkness in the gaps between – dawn and dusk and reaching to infinity – or he will be, one day, once his powers have grown.
For now, he is young, and Zangetsu is but a child just graduated from the Academy.
But they have time – all of the time in the world if they truly wish.
“Odd,” says Ichigo eventually, shrugging off the zanpakuto’s comparison. The identity of the wielder in question is beyond Ichigo – he doesn’t even know the name of his burning companion – but he finds he isn’t particularly moved by the idea that he has a shinigami doppelganger. He has witnessed stranger things in his short life. “My wielder looks freakishly like a mass-murdering Quincy king, but you know… Coincidences huh?”
Beady eyes of cobalt fire blink at him. At least one of them is surprised by the other’s brash statement. Feeling slightly childish, Ichigo counts himself a victory.
Ichigo – 1. Little blue pigeon – 0.
“How many history textbooks have you read?” he asks.
The phoenix ruffles his fiery feathers, looking somewhat abashed. “My wielder is not a great lover of books,” he admits. “It has been some years since his time at the Shino Academy.”
“Well,” Ichigo begins, unable to hide his amusement in the glow of the zanpakuto’s blaze. “Try the library – there’s a decent collection on the Quincies there, although it is pretty biased and totally outdated, but check it out. Then come and find me and I’ll introduce you to Zangetsu.”
“Ah,” the phoenix replies, inclining his head thoughtfully. He hops a little closer to Ichigo’s leg, his glorious crescent-shaped tail curling across the shadowy cloak. “Perhaps I will do so. Zangetsu is your young wielder?”
Ichigo shrugs. Zangetsu doesn’t look young, but he supposes the description is accurate. “Yeah. I’m Ichigo by the way.”
“Ichigo,” repeats the other zanpakuto, lifting his head proudly. “Engetsu.”
“No, you were right the first time – Zangetsu.”
The phoenix laughs. Some of the flames upon his body waver, stretching out into a pair of wings that scorch against the edges of Ichigo’s shawl. “My name is Engetsu.”
“…Oh.”
“Yes,” Engetsu agrees, laughing some more as Ichigo’s expression deepens into a frown. “I imagine this is going to get very confusing rather quickly, don’t you?”
All Ichigo can do in response is nod. He wonders, absentmindedly, if Engetsu is simply just a resulting of his dosing off atop the roof without realising. There’s no way, after all, that he and Zangetsu share that many similarities with other people… is there?
Engetsu looks more amused about it than anything, so maybe there’s nothing to be worried about.
Ichigo’s not convinced.
(Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. But three times? Three times is enemy action).
(He doesn’t mention anything to Zangetsu though – he’ll let the man come to his own conclusions first).
7. SAKANADE
He hears the giggle before he smells the danger; pleasant, almost fruity, and enticing him to seek out the origin, but Ichigo has had enough experience with Sakanade’s favourite pastime to know better than to give into the sweet aroma. Instead, the second he spots the rosy haze drifting towards him; menacing, a storm cloud disguised as a marshmallow, his darkness flees to the nearest corner, and his cloak trails splodges of shadow into the ground – a desperate attempt to ground him as the room sways and spins and tips –
“Sakanade!” he roars, reaching out to save the prized value of Zangetsu’s textbook as the walls tumble over and the tables attempt cartwheels. The bookcase teeters beside him, groaning and wailing in panic. Ichigo knows he won’t be able to save everything in the room, so he prioritises his sanity and screws his eyes shut, but relentless, the world continues to reel.
Another giggle, this time from somewhere to Ichigo’s right, echoing from where the ginger zanpakuto hopes the only escape has remained. Daring not to open his eyes, Ichigo reaches out with his shadowy reiatsu. It flashes across the floorboards with a slow and cautious intent, but to where Ichigo cannot say. He aims for the feline mastermind of this trick, but he is all too familiar with Sakanade’s Inverted World to hope to achieve his goal. Where he thinks she is hiding isn’t where she’ll be found. What he thinks is up isn’t up, but nor is it right, left, or down. Sakanade’s illusion works deeper than the eyes – it fools the brain, body, and soul as well, and Ichigo has yet to figure out how to counter it.
“Come on, open your eyes,” Sakanade invites, and Ichigo can imagine her lazing across the desk, her amber paws crossed before her and her tail swishing hypnotically from side to side. For all of the damage she can cause, Sakanade isn’t the most frightening zanpakuto to perceive, but Ichigo supposes when one’s aptitude is to fool the mind, one can alter other’s perception to suit their whims and desires. Why look terrifying when you’ll never be seen?
“Hell no,” Ichigo replies, shaking his head frantically. Sparks of fire tumble from his hair, spitting like wary vipers. “I’m not falling for that one again. You know I can’t get out of your Inverted World by myself.”
“But watching you is half the fun,” Sakanade whines, and Ichigo hears the papers of the desk rustle as the tawny feline rolls across the surface.
“For you maybe.”
“Obviously,” drones the cat, laughing as a scowl etches into Ichigo’s uneasy demeanour. “Aww come on Ichigo,” she continues, stressing the syllables of his name teasingly. “Don’t you want to play?”
Although his mind screams no, Ichigo dares to peak into the chaos of the office. Stretched across the desk as expected, Sakanade has a Cheshire cat worthy smile carved into her sleek gold fur, but that’s the only thing Ichigo can be certain of as his stomach rolls. Beneath him, lights extend from the floor like metallic, fantastical trees. Windows reveal a fragmented sky – topsy-turvy rooftops lead off into the distance, and clouds drift away in crooked shapes of a monstrous imagination.
Ichigo shuts his eyes again and curses his friend’s wicked idea of entertainment.
Sakanade purrs and slinks closer, her paws padding along what Ichigo hopes to Hell is the floor.
“Spoilsport,” she sings.
“I hate you,” he says, only half meaning it despite the ridiculousness of the situation he’s in.
“Ooh, ouch,” Sakanade replies, laughing as she stalks around him, trying to yank his legs away from the wall with her tail. “And here I was just thinking of letting you go…”
Ichigo knows better than to hope she’s anything but a liar. Still, the thought of rational freedom is a pleasant one, and he finds himself scowling at his lost chance before he can think about the consequences of revealing his weakness to the other zanpakuto. The last time (and only time) he had admitted that the Inverted World severely distressed him, Sakanade had refused to free him until he had been able to navigate his way from the Fifth to the Fourth Division without bumping into anything.
Hours of his life had been wasted, and by the end of his ‘adventure’ Ichigo had been no closer to feeling comfortable walking backwards on his head with his left and right feet swapped than he had been at the start.
(But was that really so surprising?)
Sakanade hadn’t been able to look at him without laughing for weeks.
Ichigo curses at the memory. His cloak continues to melt into the floor, shadows pooling about his shoes like sentient cement. Usually the zanpakuto would kick them away, but he fears moving his feet will result in some catastrophic somersault into the ceiling. Under lucid circumstances, Ichigo would doubt his ability to perform such an action, but in Sakanade’s twisted world, almost anything is possible.
Yet, despite his constant stream of complaints about his feline friend, Ichigo is certain that Sakanade will never truly hurt him. The slender zanpakuto seeks entertainment and company, and although others are often unwilling participants to her enjoyment, Sakanade isn’t cruel by nature.
Sly, yes. Cynical, yes. Hugely arrogant, somewhat narcissistic, and not to mention rubbish at noticing social cues, yes, but she’s also (grudgingly) apologetic when mistaken, humorous and dry, and she will protect her friends and family to the death, if needed. Her antics just take some getting used to, that’s all.
To be considered her friend is a privilege.
Most of the time, Ichigo amends, grumbling as Sakanade tugs at the end of his robe and jolts him back into the world of chaos. The bookcase has moved now (or Ichigo has moved – or the room has moved), and the lamp in the corner seems to have started glowing a faint lavender for some reason, but Ichigo keeps his eyes trained on the other spirit. Sakanade’s amber figure is a foundation in this strange world, even if she takes to climbing down the ceiling and spinning through the floor.
“What?” the lioness asks, noticing him staring. “Cat got your tongue?”
She cackles around a mouthful of terrified shadows, still trying to get him to move, and Ichigo rolls his eyes as his shadows slide between her fangs, attempting to flee.
“I do hate you, you know,” he sighs.
Frankly, Sakanade looks delighted at that.
8. ZABIMARU
“I’m not really sure I see the appeal,” Ichigo admits, twiddling the slim black-capped object between his fingers, frowning at it in contemplation. “Are you sure Sode no Shirayuki knows what she’s talking about?”
Red-faced and silent, the baboon inclines his head, his entirely yellow eyes remaining fixed upon Ichigo’s in confidence of his reply. The baboon is the calmer of Zabimaru’s two faces and often assumes the role of the lead in conversation. Ichigo doesn’t particularly care which head answers his questions, although the snake does enjoy formulating the most complicated string of sentences possible.
Assured by the action of the ape and the end strands of his hair seeming to fizzle with the zanpakuto’s thought, Ichigo hums and presents one end of the object to Zabimaru, lifting an eyebrow. Both of Zabimaru’s heads tip down to inspect it – the baboon merely flicking his gaze to glance at it, and the snake winding his silver body closer to give the object a curious stare.
“Her wielder does have some unruly pastimes, but this isn’t something I can imagine Sode no Shirayuki sharing an interest in,” Ichigo goes on, thinking back to all of the times he has ever seen the raven-haired Lieutenant out of the confines of her noble household. Sode no Shirayuki is a good friend of his, but Ichigo cannot claim to be knowledgeable about her wielder. Yet, even he can see that Rukia Kuchiki is happiest out of her family’s rigid gaze; a sparrow in a cage of ice, waiting to spread her wings and join the blizzard of her dreams.
The snake of Zabimaru’s tail hisses. “Perhaps her odd concept of beauty has stimulated her to advance her skills in the art of dehumanising people for the sake of entertainment,” he says, narrowing his tiny eyes at the mutated calligraphy brush.
“You don’t think Sode’s drawing skills take after Rukia’s, do you?” Ichigo blurts, cringing at the thought of the endless pages of cartoon rabbits and ducks that the Lieutenant revels in producing. They will never escape from the mountain piles of sketchbooks if their snowdrop-kissed friend decides that amplifying her wielder’s work is worthy of being her new favourite hobby.
“Let’s hope not,” Zabimaru’s snake-head replies, his uncharacteristically short answer revealing his horror. At the other end of his body, the baboon half of the zanpakuto pales in dread, shivers ripping through his sturdy white shoulders.
Ichigo watches the jagged lightning-blue marks in Zabimaru’s fur quiver with the movement and silently agrees with their assessment. The Lieutenant’s art is frightening enough, but Sode no Shirayuki could carve life-sized models of snow-bunnies if she truly wishes.
(The Soul Society could be a Winter Wonderland by dawn).
“Still, it’s not that we can draw any better,” he mumbles, eyeing the object in his hand. Sode no Shirayuki had called it a Sharpie, but while the little black part beneath the cap is somewhat pointy, Ichigo wouldn’t say it is sharp. Human world logic is irrational to most zanpakuto though, so he had accepted the explanation without much thought. Subsequently this means that he now isn’t entirely sure why the flawless zanpakuto has bestowed the Sharpie upon him, but after years of friendship with Sode no Shirayuki, Ichigo has learnt not to question the inner workings of her mind.
It could be a female thing. He doesn’t dare second-guess Minazuki, Benihime, or Katen Kyōkotsu either – Ichigo values his existence far more than his manly pride.
“Speak for yourself,” snaps the serpent, snarling razor fangs at the shadowy zanpakuto. “I’m positive that any art form of mine would utterly put your dismal attempts to shame.”
Zabimaru puffs out his chest proudly, his competitive streak firing up a light behind both pairs of his eyes. Although the baboon says nothing, Ichigo can feel the strength of his conviction in the grind of his jaw and the tilt to his head, and the primate’s determined stare rises up as his hefty form towers imposingly over Ichigo’s.
Not one to back down from a challenge, the ginger zanpakuto quirks an eyebrow and grins open-mouthed, pink tongue swiping across his teeth. Fiery core alighting, his cloak shifts restlessly, eager to prove Ichigo’s capabilities to the big-headed zanpakuto.
“Really.”
“Yes,” the baboon says, his voice a deep, resounding drone. “Would you like to test it?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m game,” Ichigo replies, making himself comfortable atop the roof they have claimed. “Although… how exactly are you planning on holding the pen? Your hands are way too big, and I’m pretty sure you won’t be giving it to snake-y over there –”
The zanpakuto’s tail hisses at the insult, prompting Ichigo’s grin to widen. Zabimaru, like his wielder, is extremely easy to tease, and Sode no Shirayuki isn’t the only one to appreciate it. The fact that the venomous snake half of the animal-like zanpakuto depends on the baboon for movement means avoiding a rather vicious bite is a million times easier than it would be if he were taunting Shinsō.
(…Not that Shinsō is around for that anymore).
“I will manage,” Zabimaru states.
Believing him for, like, a whole second, Ichigo laughs.
And because he’s in a good mood, he uncaps the Sharpie and throws it to his friend.
It bounces off Zabimaru’s clumsy attempt at catching it and streaks a thick, black line of his incompetence straight along the pristine white of his fur. The baboon stares wonder down at the mark, looking almost offended, and the snake watches the Sharpie roll across the tiles and tumble from the roof.
Ichigo howls.
9. TOBIUME
Despite being a soul that revels in social interactions and holds relationships in high regard, Ichigo appreciates his privacy. He wouldn’t consider himself an extrovert by any means – he enjoys company, but even a single person can become tiring to entertain. Alone, he can express himself in any way that he wishes, and this is usually silently, like the slumbering darkness of the night. Solemnity isn’t a side of his personality that many are privy to see, so Ichigo understands that other people – other zanpakuto – are far more complex than the face they show to the world.
As such, he doesn’t mean to impose. Having felt Tobiume’s reiryoku long before he had seen its cherry glow through the trees, Ichigo knows she doesn’t want to be intruded on. Why else would someone as bubbly and bright as her seclude herself at this time of night? For Ichigo it’s understandable – a light in the darkness, he often spends hours wandering the empty streets. But for Tobiume it’s unusual behaviour, and Ichigo doesn’t have to wrack his brain for a reason why she might be distraught.
The whole of Soul Society is still quaking in the aftermath of the betrayal; three captains lost to the desert of Hueco Mundo. Zangetsu had never been particularly close with any of them, but Ichigo had considered Shinsō something close to a friend. Ichimaru’s treachery has come as a shock, and Ichigo knows the agony that he feels is evidence of his incompetence – he’s failed as Shinsō’s friend, and know both the zanpakuto and his wielder have stepped far off the path of redemption.
Ichigo can only begin to imagine what Tobiume and her wielder must be feeling.
He is just about to slip away in the opposite direction when the forest alights in a glow of fire; wood splinters with a snap, and the cry of a seagull screams through the trees. There’s a shriek of rage seconds after it, and another seagull cries back, the forest blooming with fire. Shadows are driving Ichigo towards the clearing before conscious consideration of the scene can inhibit him. Tobiume’s not an idiot, but with Aizen’s manipulations still fresh in all their minds, Ichigo doesn’t trust her not to accidentally hurt herself in her anger.
A third screech rings just as Ichigo approaches, and he has to jump out of the path of the blazing fireball as Tobiume throws one of her humungous bells over her head. The sparks clip the edge of his robe, but the molten darkness has consumed the flames before Ichigo has even finished launching himself into the clearing. His arrival consequently not as graceful as he had aimed it to be, Tobiume almost fries him with her second bell before she realises who has just fallen into target range.
“Ichigo-san!” she squeaks, the pink ribbon her bells are attached to slipping out of her grasp. The hefty instruments clunk as they bury into the ground, and dirt flicks across Ichigo’s clothes when she hastily scoops them back up. “Oh – I’m sorry!”
“Hey, hey, no worries,” Ichigo soothes, holding his hands up in front of him. He intends for the motion to convey his composure, but he supposes Tobiume must read it as surrender when she blushes and apologises again, looking mortified.
Behind her, the log that fell victim to her rage crackles and smokes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, feeling like a complete moron in the face of her stare – startled and unnervingly deer-like. She probably thinks he’s a creep now, even though Ichigo’s attempt at actually creeping hadn’t gone according to plan.
(Sometimes he has to remind himself that he’s the zanpakuto of a captain-class shinigami).
“Am – am I okay?” Tobiume replies, her hazelnut eyes impossibly widening. “Are you okay? I tried to attack you! You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Um,” says Ichigo, not having expected the conversation to flip towards him so suddenly. Wasn’t he here to make sure she was all right? She’s the one burning bridges out in the forest, after all – he was just the fool who hadn’t been looking where he was going.
Tobiume squeaks again, this time lifting the large lilac sleeves of her kimono to cover her mouth. Her head shakes frantically, and the bells jingle with the movement. “I’m so sorry! Of course you’re not hurt – I don’t know what I’m saying, I wouldn’t ever be able to actually hit you –”
Ichigo glances down at the edge of his robe, watching it singe.
“Err,” he mumbles, pinching the fabric to put out the last of the flickers.
“– I wasn’t aiming for you, I swear,” Tobiume goes on, her demeanour slowly paling from embarrassment to gloom as she rambles. “I didn’t think there would be anyone else out here, especially not at this time of night. I guess that was a stupid assumption, wasn’t it? Shinigami practice drills at all hours, not just during the day, and I suppose captains are so busy that they have to – oh no! I didn’t interrupt your wielder’s training, did I? Am I – am I in your way? I can move if you need me to – I was only… only…”
She glances behind her, and then at the two bells swinging by her feet.
Destroying a perfectly innocent tree comes to mind.
The charred tree stump cracks.
“Oh,” she says, the blush returning as the forest continues to burn. Her eyes find Ichigo’s for a moment, but then drop down in another bout of embarrassment. Her fringe sweeps over her eyes, protecting them from Ichigo’s gaze. “…I’ll fix it?”
Flabbergast, Ichigo has to forcibly click his mouth shut to stop himself from gaping at her.
Tobiume bursts into tears.
“I’m such a bad person!” she wails, hiding her face from Ichigo’s incredulous expression. “What am I doing out here? Momo’s probably so worried – I can’t believe I just left her sleeping! What was I thinking? What if she wakes up and needs me? I’m such an awful zanpakuto!”
Beyond confused, the shadowy zanpakuto releases a puff of reiatsu in a comforting wave. “Hey,” he tries, stepping towards the sobbing girl. “Hey, it’s okay –”
“It’s not okay!” Tobiume cries, sniffing loudly. “I’m supposed to be good at this sort of stuff! Momo’s a lieutenant – I need to live up to those standards! How can I do that if I’m out here wrecking trees?”
“I wreck trees all the time,” Ichigo supplies, inching closer. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but he hopes light-hearted honesty will cheer her up a little. It’s how Zangetsu and he lift each other’s spirits… although it is difficult to crack a joke when you only know the jokes your other half knows.
Tobiume peeks through her fingers to stare at the hopelessness of Ichigo’s hopeful expression and cries harder. “I have no hope!” she blubbers, hiccupping. “How am I ever going to help Momo put our division back together when I can’t even keep myself together? Oh god – oh god I need a tissue –”
For the lack of anything better to provide, Ichigo dips his fingers into the gooey shadows of his robe and tears off a stripe. The shawl slinks about his fingers resentfully, but obediently reform the damage as Ichigo hands over the black fabric to the other zanpakuto.
Tobiume thanks him and blows her nose into it.
Ichigo’s cloak shrinks back in horror. The zanpakuto feels a weird rushing movement across his skin as every inch of his clothing tries to shift as far away from the girl as possible. Unaware, Tobiume continues blurting out her troubles, and in her grasp, the strip of Ichigo’s shadow flops dejectedly in defeat.
“How dare he! How dare he! What sort of captain does he think he is? What sort of man would ever build up so much trust and so much admiration, only to tear it all down in some miserable plot to – to – to do whatever! Gah, I don’t even care what he wants! Why did I ever fall for his tricks? I should have been able to warn someone! I should have been able to do something – but no! Stupid little Tobiume is too stupid –”
“Stop,” Ichigo stresses, carefully pulling one of her hands away from her face. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her skin is blotchy with tear-tracks, and Ichigo instantly feels horrible. “Look, I’m sorry okay, but just –”
“Why are you apologising?” Tobiume blurts, hiccupping again. “There’s no need for that – you haven’t done anything wrong –”
He feels like he has, but he’s not sure why. “I – I don’t know,” Ichigo mumbles, adopting her previous deer-eyed expression. She’s staring at him as if he has two heads, and Ichigo can’t find the words or gestures to muster up a decent response to such a notion.
Tobiume laughs.
And laughs.
And then she doesn’t stop, clutching her sides and doubled over, tears dribbling down her face.
Ichigo has never been so far out of his comfort zone in his life.
“Your face!” she giggles, howling over the sizzle of the fire. “You look like – you look like –!”
“What?”
“You – oh god, oh – oh dear.” Tobiume rubs her eyes, dabbing away the evidence of her emotional upsurge. She seems calm for the best part of the three seconds it takes her to glance up at Ichigo again, and then she snorts unattractively and starts crying again.
“What?” Ichigo repeats, smoothing his expression into unassuming neutrality so that she can’t accuse him of anything further. Partly, he’s glad that she’s laughing and not setting trees alight, but that doesn’t make her polar outburst any less worrying. Extremes of emotion just aren’t Zangetsu’s forte, so Ichigo has no idea how to handle this sobbing-hysterics she’s got going right now.
“A puppy!” she bellows, waving one hand vaguely in his direction as if that aids the explanation to any degree. “You’re just so adorable when you’re confused! Oh, if only Momo could see you right now –!”
He doesn’t even bother replying to that, but Tobiume isn’t even looking in his direction anymore so she clearly isn’t expecting an answer.
She just… doesn’t stop laughing.
Ichigo doesn’t know what to do with her. Most of the zanpakuto he associates with are the epitomes of tranquillity; rigid with seriousness when necessary, and sometimes when it’s not. They all know how to have a good laugh (or, most of them do) but there’s usually some kind of warning sign that Ichigo can pick up on. This – this random, happy-sad giggling – is incomprehensible to him.
Do all girls cope with their anger by thinking of puppies, he wonders as he searches around for an escape route, thinking it would make far more sense than it should if they do. Tobiume seems to have forgotten his presence entirely, immersed too deep into her own happiness to register that she’s freaking him the Hell out, and Ichigo’s cloak is fine with that, shifting across his skin in frantic tugging motions.
“I can’t just leave her,” he hisses to it. “What if she spontaneously combusts or something?”
A moment passes, and then his clothing seems to sink, gaining twice as much weight as usual.
Really, Ichigo can imagine it saying. Is that the best you can come up with?
“Shut up,” the zanpakuto whispers. “It’s a valid reason to stay!”
Opposite him, Tobiume cackles.
The robe says nothing. Ichigo has a feeling it’s going to strangle him in his sleep later.
10. ???
God-like, the spirit roams as if he expects the world to bow down to him; his footsteps are soundless and brief, but his presence seems to fill the air with an imperial countenance. Rich purple kimono trailing a royal river behind him, he moves with purpose, but his purpose is concealed by a mask of a demon; ghostly white and Hollow-like. Two gaping holes are his eyes, the mask streaked red as if the being cries crimson, but there is no gap for a mouth to be seen.
Ichigo doubts the man would speak to him anyway, but as the spirit continues down the street as if he’s walking on air, he finds he doesn’t mind the excuse not to approach. Although embodied by lonely midnight oil and lightning wildfires, Ichigo makes an effort to be warm and unassuming to all those he comes across. Slow to judge by nature, he considers one’s attitude to be more important than the first impression they give. Universally accepting to zanpakuto, shinigami, and all souls alike, Ichigo rarely refrains from giving somebody a chance.
Yet there is something unsettling about the regal zanpakuto. Layered with endless pleats and folds of mauve, the kimono hides the true form of the figure underneath. From the tips of his fingers to the crown of his head, the being doesn’t expose one inch of skin. His hands are gloves of moonlight, and his hair is a plume of feathers; a hundred dusky crows take flight from the mask, swooping down his back. They soar together until the middle of the spirit’s back, where they diverse into three distinct trails and fall to his feet. As he walks, the feathers jostle and sway, but any that break from the flock simply disappear into his footsteps, leaving no evidence of his existence.
From the rooftop, Ichigo struggles to place the zanpakuto’s name. He only communicates with two, maybe three dozen zanpakuto on a daily basis so he cannot claim to know them all, but one who emits as much nothingness as the stranger walking through November silence must belong to a captain.
But the captains’ zanpakuto – from the sparse appearances of those like Ryūjin Jakka and Kyōka Suigetsu, to the animated madness of Sōgyo no Kotowari – Ichigo has met.
He knows them all.
None of them are as elusive as ripples of the moon across the water’s surface; striking and sinister. None of them walk as if they’re in a dream or wear nightmares on their face, reflecting back fear like a mirror.
None of them make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
Ichigo drops his gaze from the imposing zanpakuto long before the stranger disappears into the night, trekking secrets behind him. Abruptly colder than he’s sure he has ever felt, Ichigo tucks his shadows around him and wonders, almost warily, if he’s really the darkest zanpakuto in the whole of Soul Society.
The celestial being is gone, but Ichigo can still hear the silence shattering around him.