02. Homecoming
Byakuya pulled himself from the stream lining the boundary of the Kuchiki estate. He remembered it being much cooler before the eternal heat set it to lava-like temperatures.
Wringing out his hair on the bank of the stream, he kept a steady eye on the flickering light through the branches. The shadows shifted constantly across the stream and dried grass. It agitated him, the ceaseless motion.
Nothing should be so quick, so darting, in this weather.
Noiselessly, he shrugged on his robes and tied his obi before returning to the manor. It was his first week back from his training in the mountains, and, he could not help but feel that his childhood home felt strange, oddly unwelcoming since his absence.
The maids startled when they glimpsed him, as if they had just glimpsed an apparition. Perhaps they did. If they looked too fast or if their eyes were too unfocused, perhaps they mistook him for his father.
He saw the similarities, too. They were painful similarities now that Sōjun was gone.
Perhaps that was the other piece, the other reason the House felt so empty, so desolate, so foreign. Sōjun was no longer there to fill the halls with music or poetry.
As a child, Byakuya took his father's gentle kindness for granted. Stupidly, he thought his father would always be there. Strong, intelligent, good—of course Sōjun would live a long, full life.
Byakuya learned of his father's passing in a missive. The funeral had already taken place by the time he received the news.
The thought still stung his heart. As his father's only issue, he should have been there, fully engaged in the preparations. But, he wasn't.
His grandfather and mentor likely determined that Byakuya's training was too important to disrupt. Sōjun was dead. Byakuya's presence at the funeral wasn't going to bring him back. Byakuya could mourn later, when he returned.
It was a calculated decision, Byakuya thought ruefully to himself as he followed the winding paths to his family's cemetery.
He laid the flowers that he had collected on his way at his father's grave, and he gave a silent prayer. Fondly, he looked upon his mother's grave and prayed.
So much loss. So soon.
Exhaling a heavy breath, Byakuya traced his steps back to the manor, where he was greeted by none other than his cousin, Tadaomi Kuchiki.
He had hoped to slip into the manor unnoticed.
"Welcome home, Byakuya." Tadaomi stood upon receiving Byakuya.
Tadaomi was only a few years Byakuya's elder, and he stood a few inches taller. He had the same patrician features that all Kuchiki seemingly shared. His eyes were gray, but wide and friendly, and his hair was dark, but short. He had an expressive face; emotions seemingly rolled off his skin, like the flickering light through the tree branches that had vexed Byakuya only moments earlier.
Wordlessly, Byakuya dipped his head down. "Cousin," he murmured, voice even and stripped of any affectation.
Tadaomi's keen eyes glimmered as he waited for Byakuya to speak. When his expectations went wanting, he gave a small, warm chuckle, "I see that the mountain air has stripped you of your voice."
Byakuya just stared, not knowing how to respond. It had been a long time since he shared the company of someone other than his mentor, who preferred the sounds of birdsong to that of conversation.
"How long has it been?" Tadaomi continued, clearly aware that any conversational heavy-lifting fell squarely on his shoulders.
"Twenty years," Byakuya stated, voice flat and affect unreadable.
A long, wolfish smile thinned Tadaomi's lips, "Well, it is good to have you back, dear cousin." An affected look smoothed the lines of his face as he stepped closer to Byakuya and slapped Byakuya's shoulder, hard.
Byakuya stared, finding the display completely perplexing.
"You seem different," he observed, smile fading as he read the lines of Byakuya's features. "More serious, now."
Byakuya stared mutely at his cousin. Any semblance of emotion, of expression, had been surgically removed from his features. It had been part of the training. A warrior does not telegraph his thoughts. A warrior pushes down the bubbles of emotions before they breach the surface. A warrior does not. . . .
Byakuya bowed his head politely, but not low enough to yield his standing as heir apparent. "Please excuse me, but there are matters to which I must attend," his words were measured and soft, but he spoke them to the floor before turning to the door.
He did not spare Tadaomi a glance as he crossed into the corridor.
"Oh, how things change," Tadaomi murmured under his breath, thinking Byakuya out of earshot.
Indeed, Byakuya thought to himself as he stepped lightly across the hardwood floors, missing the squeaky boards that he identified in the first few days of returning home.
Now, he preferred silence to the constant chatter of his youth. Now, he reached for serenity and not the burn of bravado. Now, his steps were quieter, more cautious.
Was it all a construct? Just a well-devised feign? he wondered at times like these.
He had been a fiery, jovial boy. He had craved attention, whether from his father, his grandfather, or his many other elders and contemporaries. Tadaomi was one of those contemporaries. They would play together with their wooden swords. They would yell, scream, and skirmish, adequately diverted and contented in their fantasies.
That ended when Tadaomi became old enough to enter the Academy.
Sōjun, however, was reticent to enroll Byakuya, not because of Byakuya's relative position, but because Sōjun wanted Byakuya to have a meaningful opportunity to choose a path for himself. Sōjun wanted to give Byakuya the option he never had.
Byakuya, however, demanded training. Unlike his father, he embraced the thought of the ranks, of fighting, of representing his clan and his clan's division in active battle. When his grandfather thought he was old enough to handle advanced training, he sent him to the mountains against Sōjun's wishes.
Ginrei thought tutelage in the mountains with an experienced master was the best course of action, having always worried after Byakuya's temper and fire.
It was likely the best decision, Byakuya thought to himself, even if it meant time away from his home and family.
Upon reaching the door to his study, Byakuya carefully slid the door back and crossed the room's threshold.
It smelled like an infirmary. Likely, the servants had opened the room upon learning of his arrival and scrambled to clean it, leaving behind only the sterile odor of their cleaning solutions.
Byakuya surveyed the area. Other than the smell, it was just as he remembered. Bookshelves filled with leather tomes lined the walls, and a small desk occupied the right hand corner of the room. Fresh paper and ink had been set on the desk.
Without hesitation, Byakuya took seiza on the sitting mat in front of the desk, and he began to thumb through the papers stacked neatly on the corner of the desk.
"What is this?" His brows knitted as he examined a brightly colored envelope. A golden ribbon circled the outside, and, with a quick motion, he freed the letter from its festive packaging.
Your attendance is requested at the Annual Rain Dance Festival to be held at the Eighth Division at 10 A.M. on August 14. Umbrellas strongly encouraged.
P.S.
Rain is most definitely happening.
P.P.S.
No, really. Rain. It's happening. Bring an umbrella.
Byakuya's lips thinned into a small, amused, grin.
Maybe not everything had changed.