Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach, nor any of the characters depicted within. They all belong to Kubo Tite. Or Kubo Taito. Or however you spell his name.

Chapter 4: The Mirthless

He sat down on the tree root and sighed. He knew he shouldn't have come here.

But he had to get away from the madness that was happening inside the 11th Division at the moment. It had been a week since he had woken up, and Commander Yamamoto had immediately ordered him to start training again. That was when he had discovered it.

He no longer had the strength to fight.

For the first time, Zaraki Kenpachi had lost a battle within his own division. And to the 16th seat holder too. They were planning to work him up in stages, as per his usual warm-up routine – 20th seat, 16th seat, 12th seat, 8th seat, then Yumichika and Ikkaku together. But he was already running out of breath after the brief exercise with the lowest seated member of his division, and the short sparring session with the 16th seat, Aramaki, had actually left him unconscious.

Absolute chaos had ensued after that.

All the seated members were thrown into confusion. They had immediately called Unohana to come, of course, but all she was able to do was to confirm that his reaitsu seemed to be permanently depleted. He would never rise above 10th seat – at the most – again. The entire Soul Society was shocked to the core, and fearful rumours began spreading about Aizen's abilities. What made it worse was that since the defeat had been publicly witnessed by more than 200 members of the division, that battle had made that useless drunken lecher Aramaki the new Captain of the 11th Division. And since another formal challenge to the Captaincy couldn't be issued until a month had passed, they had three more weeks to suffer through before Ikkaku could kick his ass. Morale was at an all-time low.

So he had come here, to get away from it all – to get away from the half-hidden pitying looks of his former subordinates and lesser-ranked Shinigami, away from the weaklings gone power-mad. Here, where it had all began. The place where he had first decided he should become a Shinigami.

The battlefield where he had found Yachiru.

Everything was still the same – a dead tree, a barren wasteland, and the bones of those bandits he had fought all those years ago, half-buried in the dust. But coming here was a mistake after all. There was one thing that was new to the landscape. Memories of Yachiru floated in the wind.

"Ken-chan! What'cha doing?" she cried, jumping onto his shoulder and nearly upsetting the inkpot he was dipping his brush into.

"I'm calculatin' our expenses for this month," he said adding up the figures on the paper below him. "Get off of my writing arm."

"O-kaay!" she had been quick to comply, sidling towards the door rapidly. "I'll go off and find someone else to play with…"

He finished adding the numbers and stared at the total in disbelief. "What! Yachiru! Get back here! Do you realise just HOW MUCH MONEY YOU SPENT ON CANDY!"

He bit back a bittersweet smile. Yes. That was the reason why he had joined the Shinigami. It cost money to raise a kid, especially one that was actually hungry, unlike the rest of the people in the district. But he wasn't good at anything except fighting. And the only place they paid you for fighting in Soul Society was Seireitei.

"Ken-chan! Why did you call me Yachiru?" she said, looking up at him with those big eyes of hers. They were sitting quietly on the roof, staring at the night sky.

"Yachiru was the name of my older sister, kid," he said, gruffly. "She took care of me when I was young."

"Just like how you're taking care of me now, Ken-chan?"

"Yeah, sorta."

"Ooh! Can we go see her? I wanna meet Yachiru-nee-san!"

"She's dead, kid. She died a long time ago."

"How did she die, Ken-chan?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh come on, please?"

"No."

"Pretty pwease?"

"Shut up, Yachiru."

"Ken-chan, you're such a meanie."

"Yeah."

"Okay! When I grow up, I'm going to take care of Ken-chan just like Yachiru-nee-san did!"

"Yeah. You do that."

"But you never did, did you?" he said, softly. "You left me, just as she did." Old feelings of bitterness and sadness welled up in him, compounded with his new grief, until it was almost too much to bear. He drew his soul-slayer and looked down at its scarred and nicked blade. "An' all I got left with is this sword again, just like that time."

The battle with Aramaki kept on replaying itself in his head. How he had fought with the eyepatch off. How he had lost his grip on his sword and had it knocked out of his hands, and then as he lunged for it Aramaki had hit him on the back of the head.

"It's not even a useful sword now," he growled, casting it aside. It clattered to the ground in front of him, and pain jolted his heart. "It can't protect anyone. Couldn't protect nee-san. Couldn't protect Yachiru. What use are you to me now!" he shouted, pointing at the sword.

For a long while, he just sat there and stared at the dull blade. It was glowing pink with the evening sunlight shining off it. That reminded him of Yachiru, and his heart jolted painfully again. Gritting his teeth, he forced the memories down before they could consume him in darkness again. He took a long breath and sighed.

"Ah, fighting's no fun anymore," he said to the wind, as he walked over to pick up his battered soul-slayer. Night was falling, and he was due back at Seireitei. Technically, he wasn't supposed to be here, since the area was under quarantine against those Arankaru that had snuck in during Aizen's invasion.

He picked up the soul-slayer and looked at the reflective surface of the blade. It caught the last glimmers of the setting sun, fading red in the horizon. Red, like blood. All he could see in his mind's eye was the face of Yachiru, frowning at him accusingly. It was his fault that she had died. He knew that. The burden of it almost crushed him. He couldn't bear to see Yachiru like that – staring at him as if he were her killer.

"Laugh, Yachiru," he begged the blood-red image in the blade.

A pink glow started to suffuse the blade, and before he knew it a black streak had emerged from the soul-slayer and tackled him to the ground.

"Get out of the way, Ken-chan!"

Kenpachi stared with disbelief at the tiny figure on top of his body, poised with a sword in her hand facing the Arankaru that had leapt out of nowhere and nearly decapitated him.

Yachiru?

Author's Notes: Hah! How do you like that? Although, to be honest, quite a lot of you figured it out beforehand. Guess my foreshadowing skills aren't as good as I thought they were. Oh well, never mind. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. It was fun for me to write, too, since there was a mixture of comedy, history, and pathos mixed into it. Stay tuned for the next exciting chapter, where (perhaps) more will be explained. ;-P

P.S. Alowl: You've got a very good point – I had forgotten that part. But I've got it covered… I think.