author's note: Every Ichigo-is-Kaien-Shiba-reincarnation-fic enthusiast is almost contractually required to start one of these. The rules are few. It has to:
1. acknowledge nothing that took place after the end of the Soul Society part (Arrancar at the very latest)
2. stop updating after the first two or three chapters
3. have a short (ideally one-word) title with obvious meaning
I think I can do that.
(I lost chapter one, what I had written of it, a decade ago after Word crashed, lying that it had autosaved my documents. Yeah, right. All of the writing dates to 2009, accordingly. I'll explain why that's important, somewhere, at some point. Maybe.)
Resurrected
One: The Waning Moon
Even though he was shouting, he didn't seem able to make himself heard. He had borne it as well as he could, silently grabbing any means of support he could, so as not to be pushed sideways off his building when the rain fell. It wasn't that there was any danger to it, really; this was just his own personal battle against the symbolic weather. He hated the rain; born of his wielder's own soul, he shared the same bitter associations of grief and helplessness.
He had been yelling, trying to catch his wielder's attention, ever since he had been born from the wintry harshness of Rukia's blade. He knew it was hopeless when Ichigo was in his human body, but, when he was out of that body, Zangetsu had hoped that he might be able to make himself heard. He had tried everything from insults to advice to simply screaming his own name over and over, but all evidence pointed to Ichigo simply not hearing. And now, it was almost certainly too late.
He always knew by virtue of his connection to Ichigo just what was happening in the outside world. He knew, almost intuitively, that Ichigo was in over his head. Ichigo had proven during that competition of Uryu's that he had no ability to sense spiritual pressure. He had no idea how powerful his opponent really was.
That wasn't all that Ichigo hadn't known. If Zangetsu had doubted Ichigo's deafness before, he wouldn't have upon feeling the ripple of surprise when he learned about the names of zanpakuto.
"What? Are you telling me you guys name your swords?"
The lieutenant had been understandably insulted; Zangetsu felt much the same as must have Zabimaru. Zangetsu could sense Ichigo's potential—how could he be so incompetent in so many areas?
And now Ichigo was dying. Zangetsu could feel it. But strangely, it seemed his proximity to death thinned the barrier dividing the two of them. Without hesitation, Zangetsu reached through the barrier, pouring his strength into Ichigo's body, which started to glow with Zangetsu's blue spiritual pressure. Perhaps they could still turn this battle around. Perhaps they could still win.
For his part, all that Ichigo noticed was that, courtesy of Zangetsu's boost of speed and reaction times, Lieutenant Abarai seemed to be moving more slowly. He took advantage of this, unconsciously borrowing Zangetsu's energy and letting Zangetsu guide him with stern commands that weakened to gentle nudges in the right direction as they passed the barrier dividing him from Ichigo.
By the time he realised what was happening, it was too late. He had forgotten the other soul reaper, the aloof prince who stood out of the way, evidently content to watch his subordinate fight the stranger. But then, just as Ichigo leapt into the air to deliver the finishing blow, he moved.
A thousand flower petals, each the size of a small house, burst in upon Zangetsu's world, Ichigo's inner world, breaking Zangetsu's concentration and severing his connection to Ichigo. Zangetsu saw the pink petals reflecting the light from the stormy sky, shining impossibly bright, despite the rain. They travelled aimlessly, in a casual, uninterested way, and where they went, they left destruction in their wake. They were sharp, filled with a deadly beauty. They cut easily through steel skyscrapers and glass windows, cut clean through concrete, and tore open the sky itself.
In a matter of minutes, Ichigo's inner world had been cut into confetti, leaving an emptiness behind. And Zangetsu.
And then he saw it—no pink petal this time, but a sword, recognisable as such, which was pointed straight at him. A sword that could have crushed him like an insect, with a blade so thin he could see both sides of it from where he stood. Zangetsu had no choice—he just stood there. He felt nothing, except perhaps a sort of vague joy that it had stopped raining, as the sword approached. Then, there was nothing.
~ 2 ~
