Hey y'all. I've been reading a lot of Bleach fanfic recently, and I stumbled across a few told from the POV of characters other than Ichigo. Of course, these fics involve said characters talking with their zanpaktou, and it got me thinking. There are only three canon zanpaktou appearances (no the Rebellion arc does not count!) which are Zabimaru, Hyorinmaru and of course Zangetsu. So then I thought, how do the other zanpaktou spirits look and act? And thus, this fic was born! It's a collection of one-shots from different periods of time, and I'm planning on eventually doing one for each major character outside of the three mentioned above (sorry Ichigo/Hitsugaya fans). So let's begin with the one that I absolutely cannot wait to write. Enjoy!
Oh, and also, MAJOR spoilers for anyone who isn't up to date in the manga. Just seems fair to warn ya.
"people speak"
"zanpaktou speak"
KENPACHI and NOZARASHI
Set during Kenpachis duel with Ichigo, Rescue Rukia arc.
The world was bright, red-tinted light filtering down from a blood-red sun. The sky was bathed crimson as well, and the walls of the great pit were seemingly made of clay, but were harder than iron. Dust covered everything, for there was no wind to stir it up despite the open air. The air itself was dry, but then when wasn't it? It wasn't exactly blazing hot out, but it was still uncomfortable. Not that it mattered to the man running across the dusty floor. It was apparent that he had once looked quite handsome, a chiseled jaw, tall and broad build, strong muscles covering every inch of him. His bronze skin made it look like he had been carved from stone, but the scars covering his torso and face revealed that he was indeed flesh. His pitch black hair was long for a man, reaching slightly past his shoulders in length. It was wild and frayed, sweat sticking it to his scalp and every direction at once. He wore nothing except a simple white cloth wrapped around his waist and thighs in order to make himself decent. It too was frayed and stained with sweat and dirt.
The man tore across the pit, kicking up small clouds of dust. There was no rhyme or reason to his movement, as he went forward and back, side-stepped right and spun around, nearly toppling over. One would be forgiven for assuming the man was drunk, if it were not for his eyes. They were blank white, no pupil or iris, and his slack mouth was leaking drool and spittle. He was mad, plain and simple.
The man spun around once again when he found sure footing, charging straight forward at an incredible speed. His destination, if he even had one, appeared to be the stone archway that was the only entrance and exit to the pit. It was covered completely by thick black bars, but the man paid them no notice. He flung himself head-first into them, crashing himself again and again into the uncaring metal. His fingers scrambled across the rods, trying desperately to grab onto them, but not knowing how. The man reared his head back and howled in frustration, a savage, animal sound. One last time he slammed against the bars, this time actually splitting his head open. The wound didn't seem to bother the man, but he still backed away unsteadily, blank eyes staring at the unflinching bars warily.
He had not always been like this, and on the rare occasions that he regained some semblance of his sanity, he remembered who he was and why he was this way. Those moments only came when HE slept, or on the rarer occasions HE felt something other than bloodlust and a craving for battle. The man in the pit stumbled back to the center, apparently done with his escape attempt. He slumped down to his knees and stared at the sand. Suddenly, a small wind picked up and the dust shifted. If the man noticed this, he did not give a sign. The dust moved and flowed, painting an ever-growing picture before him. There was a man in the picture, no, a boy. He was barely getting into his full growth, but he wielded a sword almost as large as he was, and with surprising ease.
The boy was running, frantically trying to get away. The man in the pit simply stared, uncaring. He would die, like all the rest, and the man would still be here, and HE would still be there, and this unending torment would never cease!
Another breeze and another figure appeared in the sand. There was no doubt that this one was a man, standing far taller than the boy. The boy stopped running and turned, gripping his giant sword unsteadily. The man in the pit stirred, his empty eyes seemingly latching onto the tall figure in the sand. In the figures hand was a sword, not large and thick like the boys, but thin, long, and broken in places. The man in the pit growled deeply at the sight of it, and struck out violently at the dirt before him. His fists destroyed the pictures, but as they had done before, the wind picked up and the pictures returned, despite his obvious protests.
Growling again in defeat, the man in the pit stayed down in the dirt, watching the battle between the two figures intently. As he had predicted, the boy was no match for the tall man, and after a short clashing of blades, the battle was over. The tall man had stabbed through the boys sword and into his heart. Slowly drawing the rough blade out, the tall man seemingly shrugged and turned away, leaving the boy to die.
The man in the pit made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a whine. Despite his earlier musings, fragmented and muddled as they were, predicting this outcome some small quiet part of him had wanted the boy to win. As much as it felt right for the tall man to win, he didn't want him to, not like this.
The wind picked up again, drawing the man in the pits attention back to the figures in the sand. The boy wasn't dead, and in fact had gotten up. The man in the pit stared, awed at the simple achievement. The boy should be dead, gone, buried like so many others who had faced the tall man. But no, there was something different about the boy. The sand around his figure pulsed and moved, and the man in the pit saw there was a shadow behind the boy. It was hard to see unless you were looking for it, but once caught it was plain to see.
The shadow behind the boy enraged the man in the pit. He spat and screamed and tore at his hair. He started running again, dashing aimlessly around the pit and flinging his limbs at imaginary enemies. Wherever he went he saw the battle before him in the sand. Seeing that it was futile, the man fell to his knees and screamed, an unearthly sound, an inhuman wail of rage and torment.
The winds picked up again, and there was something else on it. The man stopped screaming and listened, his eyes wide. There was a voice in the wind. It was not HIS voice, no, this voice was younger, steadier, calmer. Straining, the man in the pit listened to what the voice was saying, catching only bits and pieces.
"...never lose...fights for himself!" the voice spat. The man in the pit flung himself forward, his face inches from the sand where the two figures were standing off. Then the wind came again and there was another voice, HIS VOICE, and it was much clearer.
"Zangetsu?" the voice asked almost lazily. "Is that the name of your zanpaktou?" This made the man scream again, but it was less inhuman this time. There were sounds, random gibberish, formed by a mouth and mind that long ago threw away any semblance of language. The new voice ignored the mans wails. "Borrowing the power of your sword, fighting along side it? That's bullshit. A zanpaktou is just a tool, simple as that. Saying that you fight with your sword, those're cowards words. It's not something that someone strong like me and you should say!" the voice roared, the wind picking up the pace, almost tearing at the man in the pits hair.
As the man watched, the two figures in the sand gripped their swords and charged towards one another. Everything was being put on the line here, in this last blow. The man screamed in rage again as he saw them close in, tears welling up in his empty eyes and spit flying from his mouth as he bashed his fists against the ground. Then the two figures collided and it was over.
For the longest time, the man in the pit didn't move. Unless you looked closely, you wouldn't even know he was still breathing he was so still. Slowly, the figures in the sand separated, the boy collapsing into a heap, defeated. Still, the man in the pit did not move. Quite suddenly, a large cut ripped its way across his back, and he howled in pain. Blood splattered the dirt, dying it black as he scrambled around, clutching at this new wound. For what seemed like hours, the man screamed and raged, ignoring the dirt, the wind and everything. There was only pain, and only his scream. Slowly, the pain began to leave, at least enough for the crazed man to ignore it. As he lay panting in the dirt, the wind blew by and he again heard a voice. It wasn't the boys and it wasn't HIS. It sounded sweet, and familiar.
"...didn't lose! ...said it...fighting side...with Zangetsu! ...two against one..." the new voice shrilled.
HIS voice replied, ragged and low. "Side by side, with his zanpaktou..." it said, chuckling darkly. "Remember when I named you?"
The man in the pit raged again, remembering who the sweet voice came from. It was the one HE carried, the one who HE spent all HIS time with, the one WHO HE NAMED! She was to be despised, almost as much as HIM, simply for having a name, a name given by HIM. After his fit subsided, the man in the pit knelt down with his head in his hands, and the voices returned on the wind.
"It's been so long...that I forgot...the pain of not having a name" HIS voice said. The man in the pit looked up, wide eyes almost hidden behind his hands. It couldn't be. HE only talked to the ones outside, HE never bothered to say anything to the man in the pit. He must have been mistaken, hearing the wind wrong. But he felt it, deep down in the very core of his soul. The man in the pits most hated being, was talking to him.
"Everyone else had a name their friends called them" the voice said, growing in certainty. "But I didn't. That pain..." HE paused and the man in the pit waited, frozen in place. "You've waited for quite a long time, haven't you?" Slowly, the man in the pit lowered his hands, staring at the sand in front of him. His eyes were no longer blank. Like in his saner moments, they had pupils and color, a bright yellow color like a hawks. He wheezed, his voice hoarse from under use and untold centuries of screaming.
"Hey...I know I'm pretty late in asking...but...can you tell me...your name?" the voice asked.
The man in the pit flung himself to his feet, staring up at the red sky. He opened his mouth wide and croaked, coughing out jumbled letters and sounds. He grabbed his throat, eyes wide and brimming with tears. His voice would not work, no matter how hard he tried. He screamed again in frustration, falling to his knees and crying, sobbing into himself as he curled up. Nothing else got through to him, and the wind stopped blowing. Once again, the man in the pit was alone. For hours he cried, pausing only to breath in and unleash another torrent of sobs. Twice, he passed out and slept before waking and resuming his lamentations. Finally, eventually, he stopped simply because there were no more tears to shed. It was one of the quieter moments in his mind. A quick glance at the dust confirmed that HE was asleep. No, the man shook his head, causing dust to fly out of his unkempt hair. His owner deserves a name now. Zaraki was asleep, and the man in the pit was more lucid than he had been in a very long time.
He was not fixed yet, oh no. The man in the pit had been abused for years, untold centuries. There was no easy way of recovering from something like that. But the man in the pit had never thought of doing things the easy way, even when he was sane. Sitting up, the man looked around, going over what had happened earlier. He had tried to answer, had been so elated to hear his owner, his wielder, talk to him. But the words had not come. The man in the pit had long ago forgotten language, and even then, his own name.
This would not do. If he was to recover, the first step was to remember his name. He could not tell the master if he did not know it himself. Scrunching his eyes up, the man in the pit sat for a long time, reflecting on the past, trying to remember. Finally, he took a deep breath, preparing his worn out tongue and lungs for the arduous process of speech.
"N...No...za...rashi." it was all he could get out, and it took all his strength and concentration, but the man in the pit, Nozarashi, smiled darkly to himself. He had remembered his name, and soon, Kenpachi would too.
Man, that got a little bit darker than I expected. I mean, I wanted to stress how destroyed Kenpachis sword would be, having never actually talked with his wielder. Imagine being in a space all on your own, and the only person you could interact with, even slightly, ignored you. And that this person was a part of you, shared a soul with you. You'd be pretty messed up too.
That being said, I'm happy with the way this turned out, and I know I'm going to make more of them, as I said above. When and how often I don't know. I don't think this fic is going to have a regular update time, even if I wanted to do so. So, if you want more, put it on your watch list and be patient. Worst case scenario, it's a one-shot.