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He only walks from the battlefield because he had been fighting at Ichigo Kurosaki’s side.
It seems controversial. Kurosaki drives forward, never ceasing his advance towards their enemy, and as such, he is a magnet for trouble; the north to the south, his reiatsu is a beacon of fire. The most dangerous clashes explode around him, and those who stand by him earn the worst injuries for their loyalty. Yet – the death toll is low. Only the strongest can maintain their places at Kurosaki’s side, and only the weakest, the slowest, and the most undefended lose their lives. Kurosaki has a fierce ambition in combat – if his friends walk onto the battlefield with him, then they walk off with him. The silent pact doesn’t always hold, but he strives for it, and more often than not, he succeeds.
Partly, this is due to Orihime Inoue’s ability. She seldom leaves Kurosaki’s side, providing support and healing for those locked in the most exhaustive conflict – her friends, the captains, and the lieutenants. Tōshirō knows he would have died twice over had she not been so gifted, and so, from her care upon the battlefield he walks, his body aching with a fight victorious.
Even with the humans’ perseverance, it had been close. Many only have luck to thank for their lives – Tōshirō included. Hyorinmaru’s bankai has grown evermore ferocious over the past few years, and little can stop them from dominating the skies. Yet, the time restriction is still an issue – the petals wither more slowly, but wither they will. Tōshirō’s inability to maintain Hyorinmaru’s power restrains them – eventually, they are grounded, and bankai-less they are vulnerable.
Tōshirō is a captain. His shikai is frightful in its own right – a thunderous beauty of sleek elegance and snow – but relative to his opponent, it is juvenile.
It is not enough.
It will never be enough, and it is this desolating truth that prompts a sigh.
“I knew it would come to this,” Tōshirō mumbles, tracing the diamonds carved into Hyorinmaru’s hilt with his fingertips. Although clean now, the zanpakuto is still heavy with the weight of blood. Bespattered upon its edge, ghostly remnants of gore stain the sleek metal, marking battles won and lost. Tōshirō has long since tried to justify the cause. Now, he simply carves Hyorinmaru through nameless faces and waits until it is enough.
The captain is reluctant to sheath his zanpakuto. Instead, he lets the dragon’s presence calm him as the world below rages; on the Fourth Division roof, Tōshirō listens to the last of the red alarm fade away over the chaos inside the hospital. War continues in the Fourth Division walls long after the battlefield has decided its victors. Tōshirō will wait until he can hear the amber alarm wailing from inside before venturing down. He doesn’t wish to disturb Captain Unohana’s delicate work – or, not yet, at any least.
“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” the ice-wielder adds, a sorrowful confession to his zanpakuto. “I don’t know what else to do.”
There’s a rumble of reassurance from the depths of his inner world, but the dragon doesn’t vocalise his encouragement. Worn from the battle, Hyorinmaru waits to slumber away what could have been and what almost had been – their souls slammed together to form one fortification against war, pain, and death, he won’t rest until his partner does. They have already discussed their plan into the empty hours of the night, but guilt still plagues Tōshirō when he witnesses Hyorinmaru’s magnificence soaring across the battlefield.
Dragons should not be confined, and though they have both agreed to alter the focus of their efforts, Tōshirō feels responsible.
In the distance, the amber alarm begins to sound – the immediate danger has passed for now, but the Seireitei is still to be on high alert. Guard rotations are to begin again. Officers are given the chance to sleep uneasy for the night. The Captain-Commander and other tactical officers may venture from the central command room, but Tōshirō imagines Kurosaki will soon charge in to demand that the captains rest.
They have a green alarm too, but it has been years since the Tenth Division captain last heard it echoing across the Seireitei.
Tōshirō sighs again and gathers his zanpakuto’s assurance around him. Hauling weary bones and ageless aches from the rooftop, the captain steps down into the courtyard below. His approach towards the Fourth Division is silent beyond the startled hiss of pain upon his landing – elite in his movements, Tōshirō weaves through the bustling hospital. Few people notice him among the tireless rhythm, and fewer bow as he passes. The sirens of war obliterate peacetime regulations. Tōshirō finds he doesn’t care much for the lack of respect – his officers show it in different ways as they bleed agonising deaths at his feet.
He does what he can to prevent that.
Hence, why he’s here.
Captain Unohana is sitting out in the gardens when Tōshirō finds her. The gardens fall under the protective boundary of the division, but even so, little grows in the carelessness of war. There are more important things to consider than keeping plants healthy, and so the trees have withered and the plants have perished, but the captain is gazing upon them as if they are still beautiful. Beside one knee sits a communicator and a large file of patient notes, and beside the other is a teapot, steam rolling out of the spout. Minazuki is lying in front of the captain, eternally within reach.
Although the worst of the battle’s aftermath has been dealt with, Tōshirō is still reluctant to disturb the healer. Shutting the door quietly, he hovers there for a moment, white haori splattered scarlet and zanpakuto clenched in a pale, bruised violet hand.
Before him, Unohana looks pristine.
“Captain Hitsugaya,” she says, smiling at her memory of the garden in its former glory. Her head doesn’t turn towards him, but rather turns as she reaches down for her tea. “May I be of assistance?”
Tōshirō waits for an inviting gesture before seating himself on the other side of the teapot. He tucks Hyorinmaru from the captain’s sight, close to his leg, as if ashamed of the stains that blemish the icy steel. Then he turns down her offer of tea and gets straight to the point.
“I –” He coughs, words caught in his throat. “I was hoping…”
Or, he tries to breach the topic.
The healer says nothing to prompt him, but a single eyebrow rises with the wisps of steam from her mug. Tōshirō straightens his spine in lieu of bowing – he probably should, considering what he wishes to ask, but he has his pride as a captain even if it isn’t worth much anymore.
“I’ve come desiring training,” Tōshirō says, forcing the words out in a more formal manner. “I wish to learn more about the healing arts, and there is no better teacher than you.”
Unohana seems to consider him, the endless blue of her eyes revealing nothing. He had used to think her gaze was kind – motherly, like the smile mirroring the warm flawlessness of her face – but Tōshirō knows better now. Sky blue her eyes may be, but ablaze with the smog of the Seireitei’s destruction – sunlight shattered by death and the storm of a thousand raindrops of reiryoku seeping away – the sky has long since reflected tranquillity down upon them. Although she will forever remain the Gotei Thirteen’s most adept healer, Unohana is so much more than that. Ruthless, she will strike down any threat. She wields darkness in her eyes and death in her hands – merciless, she commands the scales of life, and tips it to her will.
“Shunsui once said that you will surpass him in fifty years,” the healer states, her voice soft, but with amber alarms still ringing in Tōshirō’s ears, the words are like a cold threat in the silence between them. “With war comes rapid development – you won’t need fifty years.”
“I know,” Tōshirō breathes, wondering if she is about to refuse him. He shifts his centre of gravity, feeling the weight of truth roll about his stomach. It boils away in the acid of his regrets, driving nausea to claw up his throat in choked-off croaks of misery. The captain bites his lip, willing it down.
Beside him, Unohana tilts her head, the tiny movement ruining the symmetrical perfection of her demeanour. A few of her dark hairs slip loose from the tight hold of the braid. The captain doesn’t so much as blink as her elegance unravels.
Tōshirō finds a spot of blood on the floor to stare at. He ponders the identity of the last person to die where he is sitting. He wonders if he could have done something to change that. “I’m not delusional enough to believe that I will survive to reach that point, Captain,” he says, adding a little shake of his slushy silver hair. Pieces of rubble tumble from the wintry disorder, evidence of a life almost lost. One slices his cheek as it scatters to the floor, but Tōshirō doesn’t feel it. “I figured rather than waste my time trying to achieve a hopeless goal, it would be best to aim my efforts at a more… worthwhile outcome.”
Unohana doesn’t smile, but her next words are softer, a ghost of kindness passing through. “No matter how short your life, it is worthwhile, Captain Hitsugaya.”
“Thank you,” he mutters, truly gratified to hear such a compliment even though he can barely bring himself to lift his head. “But I disagree.”
“I see,” she says, and then for a long moment she says nothing more.
Tōshirō is a captain composed of high standards and a genius’ determination to defy discriminating expectations and thus doesn’t fret. Rather, he ghosts his fingertips over the edge of his zanpakuto and closes off his expression; shoulders, tight, draw together an almost unperceivable fraction, and to any expert eye, these actions thoroughly portray the art of fretting. With every second that passing between them, the amber alarms still a constant drone in the war-torn air, Tōshirō doubts his logic. To him, ensuring that the Fourth Division’s healing expertise survives is a logical move; the finest healers are few – Captain Unohana, Lieutenant Kotetsu, Hachigen Ushōda, and Orihime Inoue. There are others with more skill than most – Kisuke Urahara, Yoruichi Shihōin, Shinji Hirako, and Isshin Kurosaki – but they specialise in ending up laid on the operating table rather than commanding it. Tōshirō reasons that their ranks need more lieutenant and captain class individuals assuming the primary role as a healer, and while pondering the identity of such individuals, his own name had listed high.
Tōshirō is a captain. He moves fast, plans accordingly, and hits hard. But he’s not the strongest, or the fastest, or even the smartest. He doesn’t hit the hardest and he doesn’t have the stamina to withstand overwhelming enemy blows.
If war wasn’t upon them, that would be okay. He is young, and he would have the time and experience to solidify his defences and power up his attacks.
But he doesn’t.
(And Tōshirō knows he’s not going to survive to see the end of the war).
“There is far more to kaidō than restoring reiatsu,” says Unohana, glancing over at him with unreadable eyes. She swishes the last of her drink around the cup with a practiced movement, like tasting ruby wine. “I require commitment over everything else – you will have less time to advance your zanjutsu.”
Tōshirō startles, jerking his head around to face the experienced captain. Relief floods through him like Hyorinmaru’s cool breath whispering their accomplishment. “I understand,” he replies, nodding. He has pondered this opportunity for weeks – the costs are not a new concept to him.
The Fourth Division captain pours herself some more tea. “Are you striving for solely kido-based techniques, or does your zanpakuto have the capability to assist healing?”
“Hyorinmaru primarily offers me mid-range techniques, but – we’ve spoken. There is the potential to develop the ability to heal. Ice… is not limited to simply destroying.”
He nearly regrets those last words as soon as he utters them – the claim rings with a childish petulance in his ears, but Unohana simply smiles her understanding.
“I imagine you will prefer to apply your knowledge to the frontlines, rather than remain confined in my division?”
Clearly his intentions aren’t as surprising as Tōshirō thought they might be. He nods to her query, hoping his goal isn’t unattainable. Orihime Inoue spends most of her time healing wounds immediately earned, but not matter what she argues, she is a child, and Tōshirō is eager to volunteer himself into danger if it means that she may be safe.
“There is a practicality in the move,” he clarifies, defending his thoughts. “Unless you would rather I…?”
Unohana laughs a chime of amusement that sends shivers down Tōshirō’s spine. “No. You are not of my division, and thus may go as you please.” She sips her tea, considering him. “You will have to speak of your intentions to the Captain-Commander before I begin to instruct you, but I can foresee that you will be a diligent and aspiring student.”
“I will,” Tōshirō instantly replies. He can hear the threat in her words, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. After a second’s hesitation he dips his head, bowing gratitude towards her. The word sensei forms on his tongue, but Tōshirō pushes it back for now, choking on it. “I – I promise. Thank you.”
She seems pleased by his words, but her true emotions are difficult to discern from the sharp, motherly edges of her complexion. Yet olive reiatsu shimmers around her, expressing a hint of satisfaction and something… else. Something predatory and protective.
Tōshirō doubts he will ever truly understand his new teacher. Being privy to her medical knowledge is only scratching the surface of Retsu Unohana’s complexities; there is far more she will never teach him, but show him – well. That is something else entirely.
After all, her reasons for pursuing the path of a healer are far, far different to his own.