A/N: Sorry for the delay. As mentioned in another story, I got a promotion - no more free time for H'ekwos, ever.
FYI, yes, even though it may split this into two or three stories, I am going to go more into Urahara and Yoruichi, Seireitei, Hyorinmaru, and the promised Grimm/Ichi/Toshiro. Always planned to. I'm new to writing, and I can't believe how freakin long it takes to get to the point when I won't let the details go.
Also, so many comments and reviews worried about the relationship between Toshiro and granny. I admit, I was going to leave it in shambles. But, since y'all aren't as down on huan relations as me, I'm rewriting a bit. I can't promise forgiveness and understanding, but I will try to provide them some closure before Toshiro gets eaten . . . I mean, before Tosh runs off with the demons . . . I mean, before Tosh goes to Seireitei and learns to kill all the demons . . .
oooooooOOOOOooooooo
Once, oh, maybe three years ago, someone had knocked on Toshiro's door. The child, only four or five years his junior, was collecting money in exchange for useless bits of cloth with what he supposed were meant to be charmingly sloppy pictures of cute animals sewn on them. He never had the chance to give the boy a coin or hear what the coin would be used for. The kid looked confused and distraught, not understanding why the adult overseeing several children extorting money at various doors suddenly appeared, red faced and hissing angry words as she dragged the boy away from his home. He had watched, expression carefully blank as the child's eyes turned from excitement to distress to fear, the adult warning the boy away from the unclean house and the demon-child within. No one else had ever knocked, until his recent visit from the bookseller, the successful dinner and unsuccessful attempt at friendship.
So, it was with an air of distrust he made his way down the stairs and to the door as a second series of staccato beats broke the usual silence. He thought it was probably the old lady, troubled that he had not shown up for breakfast. Given the way they parted, she might bother to knock though he had not reclaimed the key she'd had since he was a baby. He might forgive her since she bothered to venture out in the morning rain. Luckily, he already had tea steeping to warm her old bones. The surprise on his face seemed at least a little genuine, then, when the two guardsmen dripping on his porch looked down at him. And the surprise on their faces was certainly real when he stepped aside and politely invited them in.
It was irritating. Infuriating. The flat-faced guard stayed fairly still in a growing puddle of muddy water, watching him suspiciously and with open disgust except when looking around with thinly veiled interest. Rumors would have one believe that Toshiro lived in a home either filled with gold or decorated with the bones of animals and perhaps children he had sacrificed to some unnamed evil. Finding a spacious, clean, and unremarkable living area adjoined to a bright and obviously well-used kitchen full not of human bones but of hanging herbs and vegetables must have been a bit of a letdown. Not enough of a shock for the man to accept the offer of a cup of tea, a dry towel, or even a seat on the perfectly ordinary couch, however, revulsion flooding the plain and rather dirty features every time Toshiro made a tactful gesture of hospitality.
The officer, a gruff, older man he had once done a day's work for cleaning out a pile of old correspondence, bills, and junk, was not so still after taking the offer of a towel and hot tea. The man wandered around as he asked his questions, poking his head through open doors, touching and lifting objects, seeming to examine even the floor and ceiling. Toshiro hissed when the gloved hands lifted the green glass vase, the big, reddened nose sniffing at the yellow blooms framed in strong white petals, dirty streaks left on the fine glass, then pretended his tea was too hot when both men looked, suspicious at the sound.
Was he acquainted with Kusaka Sojiro? Yes, he had known the older boy since he was around 5. Were they on friendly terms? No. Did Sojiro attack him? Yes, on three separate occasions. Did he do or say anything to provoke these attacks? Being born.
That answer, delivered without emotion as it was a simple fact, earned a snort of derision from the guard, piggish eyes once again leering at the bruises visible on Toshiro's neck. He wondered what they made of those marks. They must assume the bruises were from his fight with Sojiro. What then did they make of the nature of the marks, dark patches not consistent with violent punches or being choked? What did they assume about the red imprints of teeth? Almost certainly the more intelligent of the two would conclude that Toshiro had been assaulted sexually, had, in fact, been willing or at the very least had not fought back. The very thought of Sojiro touching him like Ichigo turned his stomach.
The officer glared, silencing the pig, but neither joined in nor reprimanded the man for his rude behavior. He hated the flash of pity in the mud-colored eyes as the officer cleared his throat awkwardly, even if this time pity might work in his favor.
He admitted owning a sword, a gift from the blacksmith, which he kept at the home of a retired guard who gave him lessons. The officer knew this. The officer knew that Toshiro had saved the old man's home, finding a deed error that not only stopped the city from taking his house but proved the city owed him for overpaying taxes for decades. Some of the guards had been . . . well, not kind, but less vicious once word got around.
A chuckle nearly escaped when he was asked if anyone could attest to his whereabouts on the night Sojiro vanished. Of course, he claimed to be alone as he always was. Someone certainly could bear witness, and the thought of the guards questioning Ichigo was almost worth the whole revolting experience of having these men in his house.
Toshiro sipped his tea as the informal interrogation continued, wondering why there were no questions about the two strangers he had spotted in the center of town in broad daylight before they had delivered Sojiro into the hands of a demon. The guards always noted new faces at the city gates, but then those two were not quite normal. He had no idea who or what they were, but the average human certainly did not converse so easily with demons. They had both seemed wary, yes, but not shaking in terror as any common human should in Ichigo's presence.
He invited the officer to look around the rest of the house, only asking them both to be sure their hands were dry when handling any books. The man looked a little surprised at the courtesy, as if the entire city guard corps couldn't trample in here and tear the place apart if they wished. The empty-headed guard followed the officer around, absently or deliberately knocking things over and being useless, spreading patches of mud and water. He excused himself from trailing behind, heading up the stairs, returning to work while they dirtied his things and the very air, violating him as he sat expressionless.
There was nothing for the men to find. Even his hidden compartments were now sealed tight. He may not know spells and barriers, but water could accomplish much, including swelling wood planks until it would take the wholesale destruction of his house to reveal just how much money Toshiro did have. Only one hiding place was vulnerable, the most obvious one behind a slightly warped panel in the wall of his office, left so on purpose. Having no gold at all would be suspicious indeed. The officer found it, remarked upon it while the guard glared at him with envy and malice, and closed it. They accepted the explanation that the priceless diamond on his desk was cleverly cut glass, his mother's treasure that he kept close out of sentiment. Neither of the men had likely seen or even heard of a real diamond that size, and clear glass was a valuable enough commodity. After all, Toshiro owned a mirror, a vase, and the delicate glass dragon that drew quite a bit of their attention. Even the malicious guard did not make a move to damage the dragon, only casting covetous eyes over the figurine.
The officer could read, he knew, though not very well. He highly doubted that the guard could manage more than his own name. Still, he tensed before forcing nonchalance when the officer started picking up random books from his desk. The journals detailing his time with the demon were not hidden but unmarked and mixed with various other books, while the larger work in progress was hidden away. Fortunately, he had been reading the massive tome on Seireitei last night, and that beautiful book would draw anyone's eye. He let the man flip through it, explaining a few of the pictures and earning one glance of curiosity without venom from the guard as he leaned in to look at the two page centerpiece, an aerial view of the white city so precise one could imagine flying over the burnt-orange roofs and wide parks of trees.
Nearly three hours for the questions and the search, a wasted morning. Toshiro contemplated what would happen if all the water in the human body suddenly turned into ice while the officer thanked him for his cooperation. The little crowd gathered outside, braving the rain for a glimpse of his arrest and hopeful execution, only needed some torches to complete the scene, perhaps a few pitchforks. He was too pissed off to trust himself to speak, glaring boldly until the murmured curses became whispers and a few timid souls looked away. He shut the door, locked it, and took a minute in his true home to scream into heavily falling snow until he was hoarse. Then, with a resigned sigh, he started to clean.
Later that night, with the expectation of seeing Ichigo with the next sunset, he relaxed on his bed and let his mind return to the white plains. Water raced to do his bidding, freezing into rich aqua blue, towering over the large crystals and white drifts. Long legs, lean and muscular above feet with long toes. They were attractive feet, first noticed as the water rippled over them. These could not flex; the sinews could not ripple like the water and dance under the skin. But they must be bare to be admired, no boots here.
Clothes, though, the strange shifting covering impossible to replicate in sculpture, looking almost like fur distorting the elegant lines until he sacrificed realism for aesthetics, creating close-fitting jacket and trousers that were not too far off. They were necessary. If he recreated the demon naked, he might never leave. As it was, the trim pants may have bulged out a little more than necessary, and he smiled at his own carnal impulses.
Mmm, shoulders straight and strong, not bulky, not overly broad like some strong men. Condensed power there and down the smooth expanse of the chest, defined muscles adding texture down the abdomen, tapered to a comparatively slender waist and straight hips, flat bones alongside carved muscles, perfect to hold. He had not had much occasion to study the back, but he had felt the equally balanced grace and strength, such smooth skin sliding under his fingers, over the power barely contained. He licked his lips and shaped the rounded buttocks from memory and fantasy, never questioning that this part of his demon was as beautiful as the rest.
The neck and head were the easiest, always bared to his gaze, always acceptable to stare at when he had only been able to sneak glances at the rest for fear of revealing his weakness. After a moment's hesitation, his mind directed the ice to form links around the long neck, once more creating the thin sword in its tangle of twisting curves. He did love seeing something he had made lying there, just below the deep notch in his demon's neck.
The face appeared without any effort, so engrained in his thoughts that the ice flowed into the correct contours in an instant. This face he had known for years, had kept his eyes locked on it for hours, barely blinking, night after night. And it followed him into his nightmares, into his dreams, into his waking thoughts.
But now, he had touched all this, kissed it, given himself to it, and the glorious image seemed inadequate, a shabby tribute. The shining clear lips were cold, nothing at all like the fiery silk concealing lethal fangs. The carefully formed long fingers stretched out in an invitation, palm up and welcoming, but they were so rigid compared to the dancing caress and the maddeningly erotic threat of claws.
He contemplated the finished product. It would have to do, this motionless, cold tribute to his dynamic, warm demon.
oooooooOOOOOooooooo
"What's all this, then?"
She'd seen the strange cluster of people from a distance, the group lingering in the middle of the street under a canopy of waxed-paper umbrellas and wide-brimmed hats while she climbed the gentle hill. It didn't take long for curiosity to turn to dread as she struggled up the street lugging the basket stuffed with all the breakfast fixings she knew Toshiro loved.
There were thirteen, no fifteen of them, mostly men, all fixated on the wide porch of the largest and finest home in town, excepting only the lord's manor which was grander though not nearly as well-maintained. Such a gathering in the early morning, shuffling their feet in the mud, staring at this particular door . . ..
"It's the witch's bastard, ain't it?" The woman who answered her barely glanced over her shoulder, afraid to miss anything. She recognized the woman, had seen her in church and at the store, married to a forester, she thought. Brave men, the farmers, herders, foresters who ventured out beyond the wall. "He finally gone and killed someone. Guards are gonna take him."
"Killed someone!"
The exclamation ignited a string of comments and laughter, the noise blurring into the rain and the suddenly overwhelming sound of her own heartbeat. It couldn't be true, and after one second of doubt she knew it was a lie. Her bright-eyed boy had been accused of every crime from placing a curse on Risa's daughter the night she fell down the stairs when everyone knew the girl was a drunk, to somehow bringing about the late frost five springs ago that killed the first plantings.
"Oba-saan, you shouldn't be here."
A large hand took the weight of the basket, another hand settling on her shoulder. She looked up at the familiar young man. Kenta had been a quiet boy, not causing trouble even though he was nearly as big as the blacksmith. Now, he was the healer's apprentice, not a man who would harm anyone. She let him steer her slightly away from the hostile crowd, under the eaves of the neighboring house. The place had stood vacant for over ten years, considered unlucky for its proximity to the reviled boy they had all come to see arrested or worse.
"He didn't . . . he wouldn't . . .," but, what could she say? She had always known this day would come. Toshiro was surely innocent, and yet she knew that anything she said to defend him would only turn the town's righteous anger on her. These were her friends, neighbors.
"I know you've got a soft spot for the bastard, you got a kind heart. But the little demon had you fooled, oba-saan. And now the Kusaka boy is dead."
"Kusaka?" Sojiro, that was the young man's name. An old memory nudged her, Toshiro telling his mother about playing with a friend named Sojiro. The tiny boy had been nearly bursting with excitement, his mother's smile hopeful and somewhat sad. When had Toshiro stopped talking about the boy? Not long, she thought.
"Bastard killed him. Young Kusaka might have provoked it, they got in a fight a few days back, so I hear. Still. Murder is murder."
Got in a fight? Oh, gods, it all started to make sense. Toshiro never did say who was responsible, not when he was a kid, not last week. He'd been so calm, even as she could see him fighting with the pain, no hint of justifiable anger. But if she was right, if this Sojiro was the reason for her boy's suffering, not just now but for years . . . well, even the most forgiving have their limits. Even the kindest person can snap when attacked and do something unthinkable.
"No, not Toshiro. You're wrong. You're all wrong."
She hadn't realized she'd spoken until the muttered accusations and curses died into chilling silence. Heads started to turn. Familiar faces, some she'd known since they were children as bright and innocent as the tiny boy laughing with his beautiful mother, unaware of ugliness of the world around him. It was easy to read these faces – curiosity, confusion, pity written on a few. On others, there was something hideous, something dark and gleeful, something beyond hatred or accusation as they recognized the old woman who had helped the stranger when she arrived in the city with pockets heavy with gold and belly heavy with a fatherless child. Eyes followed her as she backed away, eyes she had seen before, glaring at the boy or his mother, eyes she had tried to keep from looking at her for so many years.
"You'd best go on home." The calm kindness in Kenta's voice was gone, the quiet words stern. The gentle smile was gone, turned into a slight sneer. "Nothing you can do here. It'll all be over before you know it."
Stumbling back another step, away from the suddenly threatening form of the healer's apprentice looming large over her, she couldn't even see the tidy porch and polished door she had walked through so many times, the way blocked by hostile glares. Fear for Toshiro was lost in fear for herself, and she hurried as quickly as her old bones could manage back down the hill, leaving her basket and the boy she had cared for the past 16 years behind.
oooooooOOOOOooooooo
His own world was never of great interest to Ichigo. As far as he knew, it was of interest to no one. The lesser Hollow were trapped here until they were consumed or grew strong enough to journey elsewhere in search of easier prey, fewer predators, and less competition. The greater Hollow returned only to rest or wait for another path to open. It could be instinctual, he mused, a homing instinct of sorts.
Once, he had stayed out for what he guessed was a very long time, traveling gate to gate, venturing far from the closer worlds that were rich in energy with gates that never closed. Toward the end, he had to consume at least one soul daily to stave off increasing hunger and a sense of weakness, an uncommon enough phenomenon that it caused something quite close to fear. The novelty had been worth repeating the experiment, until even that thrill of alarm had dulled. He could last weeks away from home, months possibly with strong enough prey to nourish him, but he gained nothing from it besides discomfort. It was like something was pulling him, a mental itch that gradually grew unbearable and only lessened when he turned his feet back toward Hueco Mundo.
There was nothing here. But it was a nothing he was somehow attached to. The vast stretches of empty dunes pockmarked with stones, caves, the occasional clump of crystal could be soothing. Time retreated from his mind, and he was sure there were stretches when he did nothing but sit and watch the never-changing landscape or wander aimlessly, remembering the times when there was some impetus, a drive for survival. Now, top of the food chain, only another Vasto Lorde could cause a ripple in the ennui. Thus, the traveling, seeking out change and things of interest if not excitement.
That was before. Before he was distracted by what seemed to be a particularly tasty human. Before that distraction became an obsession as he found himself closer and closer, found himself enjoying more about the boy than just the potential treat of devouring the lovely body and luminous soul. Before obsession became possession. Before the imperative to hold and protect, nurture and own. Before Toshiro. Before a similar deep pull made him ache to return to the bright soul, made him fidget with the longing to get up and find his little mage.
Breathing deep, he closed his eyes and focused on the chain around his neck, the pendant exuding the lovely scent of his sweet Toshiro's blood, undiminished. It was oddly calming, having this piece of Toshiro close, a reminder of a connection to another being that was not entirely based on his own selfish wants. And the other, fainter, like a thin, strong wire stretching away. The fledgling was elsewhere, hunting on another world. He felt no pain, no need, but the ever-present hum through the wire of awareness, of connection.
Uncounted years, billions of humans that were only entertaining for a moment, hundreds of fledglings tolerated only long enough to chase away or kill. This must be what human priests called miracle, a heartless creature like him sitting alone and realizing the no, he was never alone, never had to be again.
A small Hollow, primitive, barely beginning a journey that may last an eternity or a second, skittered across the gray sands inches from where he sat on the crest of a dune. White with purple-black streaks, clearly a lizard form, it paused and cocked its head, one eye training on him before it continued, disinterested. These, no more than simple bundles of energy, were not afraid of him, instinct telling them he was not likely to eat them, like a fly buzzing around a lion. Were he not tightly restraining his power, the Hollow would have been obliterated, energy thoughtlessly absorbed into his aura before it was aware of danger.
He smiled at the tiny creature, thinking he may once have been its twin, unsure if he was disappointed or relieved to have no memories prior to finding his name. That wasn't entirely true, there were flashes, dreamlike sequences particularly of times when he was still struggling through awareness without identity. But not as far back as the beginning. Not even close. The parts that made up Ichigo, if anyone could trace them back that far, would have been housed in hundreds of thousands of little Hollows like that lizard. Only time and multiple acts of violent cannibalism changed that.
Before Toshiro. Back when he never thought of such things, never tried to figure out how to explain concepts that were just . . . there. Not explainable. Not things one thought of. Before the boy's curiosity infected him and became his own, making him wonder impossible things like who he would be now if not for the precocious human. Like, if he had not been traveling that night, would he ever have met another soul that changed him so much? Like, had he met Toshiro long ago, would he have consumed the boy? Would such a soul have become his identity? Would he be Toshiro now, a terrifying demonic spirit of ice with bright eyes?
He sent a little pebble rolling down the dune. Not of rock, but a tiny ball of condensed energy, glowing faintly as it whispered over the sands, chased by the little lizard. A free meal as payment for the moment of amusement. After an eternity of taking, taking, taking, it seemed he was giving much of himself away. His energy to Grimm, what could be considered his wealth to the Visored, and his very self to his Toshiro. Not that he was complaining. Never had he had so much to look forward to. Before Toshiro he would not have even considered the concept of looking forward, thinking of the future beyond the next pursuit.
He stood and stretched, feeling the alignment still far away. He had thought of taking Toshiro to the human city south of the capital the human was always asking about, to the city where the dragon flew. The image in his mind of the joy lighting turquoise eyes, the expectation of gratitude and amazement, he had been toying with the idea ever since Grimm had found the dragon. Now, though . . . he could still taste the icy power, shockingly strong.
He had told his human that it was a gift that certain of his kind possessed, a rarity. He had not told Toshiro just how rare, and how unlikely it was that a human, even a gifted mage, could have such a deep elemental affinity. The boy had mastered control of water and ice almost instantly, a feat that would have been astonishing in any human. Even in worlds rich in magic, Ichigo had never encountered such a thing. And that made him hesitate. Reuniting his precious prey with the ice dragon may not go the way he had envisioned. His darling may decide that the dragon was better company than the demon; the affinity between the two had been strong when Toshiro's power was dormant. He did not want to risk losing Toshiro so soon, their own bond newly strengthened and untried.
Perhaps a gift instead, something not common in his Toshiro's world, something to tempt that keen intellect and insatiable curiosity, something the boy would love. He smiled again, opening a gate to one of the worlds that did not require alignment, always close and accessible on a whim. Not always safe, these worlds. Evolved alongside Hueco Mundo, they knew his kind well. The humans that thrived there did so despite being preyed upon throughout the ages, and many of them knew how to fight his kind. But he was Vasto Lorde, and no world had defenses strong enough to deter him.
oooooooOOOOOooooooo
Cutting his obligations was easier than expected. The blacksmith, the silversmith, the retired guardsman, the livery – business went on as usual. These were people he had spent more time with, trading lessons in their areas of expertise for his services. They had gotten to know him just a little, enough to not believe the worst of the gossip, enough to see how ridiculous the accusations were, a small kid making a well-known young man vanish without a trace. Others were not so clear-sighted. A few bluntly told him his services were no longer required before he could say anything, and he handed them any finished work before turning immediately to leave. Others tried to seem upset, ineffectively hiding relief when he told them he would not be coming anymore.
He tried not to feel mournful that his greater obligation had thrown him away. It didn't hurt, he told himself when he cooked for himself and not her, when he realized he did not need to pick up fresh produce as he had done daily just to make sure she ate well. It didn't bother him in the least, he tried to convince himself, every time his feet didn't make the turn onto the narrow street leading to her house. She had not come looking for him when he didn't return. It had been two days now. She had not sent word.
It left him more time for the important things like finalizing plans for his departure, though he would continue work and his lessons. He would never be a blacksmith, even if a very impressive growth spurt was in his future. But he found delight in the finer work, crafting small pieces for bigger projects, repairing simple items, and particularly adding embellishments and engravings. It paired well with handling the softer metals and more delicate work with jewelry. The silversmith had even offered him an apprenticeship based on his growing competence, a brave move when it would have cost the man customers. He had been sincerely flattered and could see himself doing the work had he never met Ichigo, but he politely declined.
As for swordsmanship, it had taken some time just to adjust teaching methods for his size, though he had grown taller and stronger since he had started to learn. The guard had tried to convince him to learn with a shorter sword, but he stuck with the longer blade the smith had given him, learning to use it to compensate a bit for his lack of reach. He was fast and increasingly nimble, not qualities his teacher was used to working with in the larger, burly men who generally sought careers in the guard. And that came out to his advantage eventually, both of them finding ways to use his size and speed to surprise a foe that underestimated him. As the guard put it, he now knew just enough to cut off his own foot.
What used to be the most dreaded of his activities had become the one he looked forward to the most. Horses had been intimidating. The very idea of voluntarily climbing onto the back of a beast that could kill a grown man with one hoof, reacted irrationally to every frightening stimulus, and outweighed him by hundreds of pounds was terrifying and, quite frankly, insane. He did not admit his fear until it started to fade. How could he fear a mindless animal when he matched wits with a demon and felt most safe in the company of a dragon?
Now he knew better. Completely capable of harming him, worthy of caution and respect, now he knew that a good horse was a treasured companion. Drenched in the sweet smell of hay and hot horse, the rich scent of worn and polished leather, ignoring the sour undertones of soiled straw and his own sweat, he found the hours of riding and then wiping down and tending to his mount the most pleasant time of daylight. He had learned at first on a placid old mare reserved for teaching children but had quickly advanced to well-trained but more independent mounts. He made a point of trying several during his bi-weekly lessons, narrowing down the selection, though really, there had never been a choice to make.
Kumori still rejected handling from anyone but Toshiro and the stablemaster, still had a wicked reputation that made Toshiro proud. He was a smart one, at first more likely to trust his own instincts than listen to a puny and uncertain rider. But Toshiro had pushed himself to learn from the gelding, to listen and respond, to forge a new language exclusively for Toshiro and Kumori.
Paying good coin in addition to his work had convinced the stablemaster to allow him to ride outside of the city, and again he had tried a variety of mounts. Of all the horses, the tall gray that no one else trusted was the one he trusted the most. This one was willing to take the risk that any new and terrifying thing was safe if Toshiro told him so. He could almost hear the horse think, eyeing every challenge before facing it down, and the gelding trusted him a little more each time. Yes, Kumori would do.
He made his way to the stablemaster's office, a small alcove off the tack room, and made his offer. Twenty minutes of haggling, and he paid just a little more than necessary for the gelding, a good set of tack to be fit for his new horse, and a month's board with feed. He would continue his lessons and his work for the stable as already arranged, which was slightly in the stable's favor since he now owned the mount he would use for lessons, a small concession to keep the man happy.
Everything was coming together. And then it was time to go home, wash away the day and get some sleep. He stopped to tell Kumori the good news, stroked the black muzzle scattered with downy soft gray and white hairs that pushed one more time into his chest, then slipped out of the stall and headed home. He walked confidently down the street, no longer trying to avoid notice, no longer cringing away from the men and women he ignored, not noticing the plainly dressed guard that had been lounging outside the stable get up and follow at a distance.
Six hours separated him from Ichigo, just six more hours.