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Being a captain of the Gotei Thirteen is a demanding job. Tōshirō knows this better than most – his foundations are paved with determination and cracked with the slander of discrimination; too young, too inexperienced, too childish. Every step about the Soul Society is a brief reminder of his struggle, be in the flash of a shunpo to duty or a stroll about his office, collecting paperwork and complaints and burying himself beneath them. Every captain’s meeting is a long, tedious reminder of his efforts. Every swish of his haori as it settles upon his shoulders and blazes white brilliance to all those who gaze upon it is a reminder of his worth – I deserve this. I am good enough for this.
His strategy is formidable; quick thinking and improvisation have designed an expert. Kido is child’s play and shunpo is a breeze. His intelligence is prodigious – a virtuoso by nature, Tōshirō observes and calculates, and with a fiery tongue to match, he can twist words to argue himself out of almost any situation. But for those he can’t, he can rely on the proficiency of his zanpakuto to guide him – ice carved into magnificence, Hyorinmaru’s great form is phenomenon personified. Limitless in his power and esteemed in his wisdom, the heavens bow before the dragon; storms quake their awe as lightning alights beauty of the zanpakuto’s slender being. Hyorinmaru is a tempest; the ice age that enclosed the world, and he is not to be confined.
To restrain the other half of his soul has never been one of Tōshirō’s wishes. Although they mastered shikai for his sake, so that he could be stronger, so that he could protect his family from the raging waterfall of his reiatsu, they attained bankai for Hyorinmaru. With just a few simple words, Hyorinmaru can soar the expanse of the Soul Society with his wings spread from tip to tip, his unstoppable splendour galore.
But time catches all. It expires with fractures of petals, ice crumbling exhilaration into oblivion. And when the last shard fades away, Hyorinmaru must await for his partner’s recovery, bound by the fate of a blade.
Sometimes Tōshirō hates himself.
He is a warrior. A prodigy. A captain.
He is but a useless child without Hyorinmaru; and without him, Hyorinmaru is nothing.
It is not a fair trade, and failures haunt Tōshirō as he lies awake at night, wounds of a battle lost tearing apart his confidence. They scream at him with every movement, jerking bone and flesh into twisted deformities of pain. There is more Captain Unohana could do, but the Fourth Division is a prison wrapped in blankets and tied with a bow, and escaping is always his first priority. The last twinges of pain are worth the grasp at freedom, and that thought alone is enough for Tōshirō to deserve the suffering.
He finds liberty in his quarters, and Hyorinmaru finds imprisonment.
If Tōshirō were stronger, quicker, smarter, better, then Hyorinmaru would not be shackled in an empty tundra, his wings clipped until his partner has found the strength to repeat the cycle; a call, a rush of adrenaline, and once again time consumes the flower of his flight. Endless, the years pass, and every battle is the same. Each time Hyorinmaru rises to conquer the skies, the words that offer salvation bind him, and their bankai comes to an end. Ice crashes around them. Their last roar is hopelessness and defeat; acceptance for what is to come.
Tōshirō tries to amend his wrongdoings. He rises early and battles through paperwork until lunch, and then patrols his division for those that may need him – he fixes accidents, reinforces their defences, and offers training in the grounds. For dinner, he swallows textbooks, and in the evening he practices his sword work until he trains in his dreams. Then he wakes again, and with the dawn of the morning comes new promises to work a little harder, be a little better. It is a slow progression towards salvation, but it is the least Tōshirō can do.
Hyorinmaru never complains about the time he spends tethered to the ground, but he doesn’t have to. Tōshirō understands him without words, and that is enough to drive the captain to become something his zanpakuto might be proud of.
Maybe one day – when they are equal, when Hyorinmaru can reach the heavens by his own will – Tōshirō will be able to look back on these years and not regret them. But now is not that day, and he has work to do. The chains restraining his zanpakuto have strengthened over years of weakness and years of neglect, and every day he vows to break them. He whispers convictions to himself when nobody is listening, and he mutters promises to the glacial scales of his soul when the dragon is resting, hopeful that Hyorinmaru cannot hear him, and saddened that he can.
(With scarlet eyes burning cold and guilty words stuck upon his tongue, Hyorinmaru pretends that he can’t. He knows the inner workings of Tōshirō's mind, and he knows that nothing will deter the boy from his goal).
(Not even the truth).