Special Thanks to Prodigy Keyblade Wielder for being my Beta!

Disclaimer: Please refer to Chapter I, since I'm too lazy to say it again.

Spoiler Warning: Thisis an AU-ish, Hitsugaya-centric work based off the 'what if Hinamori Momo died rather than recovered after being attacked by Aizen Sousuke during the Soul Society arc'. Spoilers for everything up until the latest manga chapter, since I will try my best to incorporate all canon ideas that do not directly contradict the first premise into the story. I derived storyline canon from the manga –I also incorporated additional information from the anime as long as it did not contradict the manga or the AU premise accordingly.

Author's Note: This is the rewritten version of the Interlude: War and Peace, and the entire storyline has undergone a massive change in plot and structure. Hence, if you read the previous Interlude before 1 February 2007, then I would highly suggest you read the current Interlude, and all chapters before it.

Pairing(s): Hitsugaya Centric; HitsuHina, perhaps one-sided HitsuMatsu

Unending Storm

Interlude: War and Peace

'You know the saying 'It can always be worse'? Total shit. It can't get any worse. Even Hell's better than this.'

-Unnamed Shinigami during the Arrancar War

Maybe they had been overconfident. Maybe they had underestimated their opponent. Maybe, maybe, there was something that they overlooked, that they could have done to lessen the devastation left behind. Maybe.

But Hitsugaya doubted it.

They had been perfectly aware of what lay ahead, and had known the consequences of their actions. Every possibility had been exhausted, and every resource taxed to its limit. They had paid with their tears and sweat to prepare, and paid with blood, bone, and sanity to pull through. There was nothing, nothing more that they could have done without losing the last fragments of the past anchoring them to reality – a shred of decency and a shred of defiance. And some of them didn't even have those shreds anymore.

They had paid. Blood for blood, life for life, until corpses had covered every inch of the tainted ground. Hitsugaya had been no exception, and had thrown in a little more. Captain, after all. It was expected. You were always the first to the front lines, and the last to leave. And every painful breath it took to strike down one more enemy siphoned away a little more of their humanity, a little more of their strength.

Kurosaki Ichigo was strong, stronger than he ever was. The berry-headed human teenager had faced his inner hollow, defeated it, and retained his determination and personality to their fullest. He had shouldered the additional burdens without a word of complaint, and then fought like they weren't even there. An amazing person, in all accounts, and he had amazing friends to support him. Hitsugaya couldn't help but admire the passion that Ichigo possessed – he would never be able to emulate that absolute overflow of defiance and life that the teen exuded in droves.

No, his reputation was different. According to popular belief, nothing could ever crack the mask of ice he slid over his features, and everything he did was marked by efficiency, succinctness, and thoroughness. Taciturn and observant, no detail escaped his piercing green eyes; all opposition towards him was met with brutal eradication. Tensai was whispered often behind his back, along with many other words less kind. Whether they were stated as fact or insult, he had never cared enough to find out.

There were significantly fewer people that knew any more of him than that. That he could still smirk, laugh, and relax occasionally, make sarcastic comments and feign anger when anyone mentioned his height. That he would die defending his Division, and his heart grieved for every shinigami they lost, even when his expression stayed harsh and unmoving on the outside. That he could even be a source of comfort and reassurance when things got really bad, and was a dependable ally under any circumstance. But those times were very, very rare now, and the people who knew were very, very few. Mostly, no one would ever doubt that he was serious, emotionless, and very cold. Hitsugaya was a deadly opponent when crossed.

He couldn't complain, since most of it was his own doing. Very few people could get through the ice now; few enough for him to count on one hand. But those that could were those that he would trust with his life and in return, they would trust him with theirs as well – Matsumoto, Unohana, and perhaps Ukitake. His list of friends wasn't much longer, and limited to those who weren't intimidated by the dragon within.

Hinamori had once been in that list. But, now – Hitsugaya forced himself to admit it through gritted teeth – even if she wasn't dead, he knew that she would always be infinitely more loyal to Aizen than anyone else. The void she left behind gaped back at him, taunting him, refusing to disappear, and he had responded in his frustration by sealing the whole thing off with ice. Of course, he wouldn't admit that to anyone, since everyone he trusted probably already knew.

Matsumoto, for one. She was as aware of the void Hinamori had left in him, as he was aware of the emptiness left by Ichimaru Gin in her. They had come to an understanding, and a mutual resolve not to mention either matter.

Reality had given them no time for regrets or introspection. They had had no time for anything. The war had shattered the uneasy peace before anyone had been quite ready, and the scourge had lashed at them with sickening venom.

It tore them to shreds, both mentally and physically. Not an inch of skin was free from their congealing blood; not a single night passed without revisiting the horrors they wallowed through every day. The blood of comrades and enemies alike ran slick over their dulled blades, their calloused hands, and their aching hearts. Despair haunted the black circles under their eyes and magnified every weary heartbeat; they could not rest, could not eat, could not sleep without an eye open, lest the night bring death among their ranks. They lost more Death Gods during the first few months of fighting than they had in the last few millennia. It was no wonder that many welcomed insanity when it came.

After he had cut the body of another suicide victim in his division from the rope that dangled her broken neck from the ceiling, Hitsugaya realized with grim awareness just how far the mighty shinigami had fallen. Suicide, intoxication, insanity, and desertion had run rampant through the ranks, striking down the most unexpected people. There was no one who had not lost a friend, relative, or lover to the war, whether it was the unforgiving, squalid conditions they fought under, or the swift blade of an Arrancar.

Even Hitsugaya felt his breaking point drawing inevitably closer, as he tore his way through Arrancar after Arrancar. Whenever he looked into the mirror on one of his bad days, the emptiness in his reflection's eyes staring back at him was startling. It was the same look that haunted every Death God's eyes, no matter how cleverly they tried to hide it. The shattered naivety, the knowledge of the hideous extents of human cruelty; the insecurity of having nothing solid to hang onto, the fact that a friend may be there one day, and gone forever the next; the helplessness and hopelessness that destroyed any faith they had left.

And still greater burdens weighed upon his shoulders. The knowledge that if others fell, he was to catch them and set them upright, and yet when he stumbled in weariness, all he could do was steady himself and plough onwards alone, for there was no one to save the saviors. It was no longer a question of if he would snap, but when and how hard. But when he did snap, he would let himself fall apart only while he was alone, for even in the darkest times, he would never abandon pride.

In retrospection, Hitsugaya never wanted to experience war ever again. It had been a drastic escape from facing reality, for reality became nothing but a gruesome game of killing and being killed. In the bloody chaos that reigned, no one had any no time for introspection, no time to let their thoughts wander, no time to mourn the people they had lost. Everything had simply been a blur of red and black, and you either woke up to see the next day or you didn't.

Yamamoto had called them together in a final, collaborative meeting, one that would decide the fate of the shinigami and the world they tried to save. The meeting had been tedious and interminable. Through countless arguments and heated debates, they reluctantly chose a drastic and inevitable course of action, one that met reluctant approval and grim determination.

They would gamble. To end the war with one massive strike. No reservations, no second chances. The shinigami would draw on every resource at their disposal, and end it in one final bloodbath. The Quincy and the Vaizard, their allies from the living world - not a single person was overlooked. They had stormed into Hueco Mundo, every last one of them armed to the teeth.

They won.

They had lost more than three quarters of those that remained, and not a single death god had escaped unscathed. Tousen and Ichimaru were slain, the first by Komamura and Hisagi, the second by Kira, Matsumoto, and Shunsui. The Arrancar and Espada were eradicated, and the once mighty citadel of Las Noches burned to the ground before their wrath. And Aizen…the traitor that started it all – he was sealed with the deadliest vows of binding, stronger even than those that bound the Soukyouku. His soul was locked in the depths of Seireitei, constantly watched in case he might break free.

They were victorious.

But that victory had come at a terrible, terrible price. Hitsugaya had conducted various investigations of their losses, and he was very aware of how many had died, and how many were still in danger of doing so. But he did not realize how deep the psychological damage ran until he stumbled upon Matsumoto again, after the final, greatest battle had burned itself out. Both of them were exhausted, riddled with wounds, and teetering on the edge of consciousness. He had been silent, and she had wept softly.

She had been cradling Ichimaru's head in her lap. In the end, the woman had still been unable to strike the final blow; Shunsui did it for her. But he had been kind, and given the two some time alone, as Gin died and she wept. Hitsugaya did not know what words they had exchanged, and he respected his second-in-command enough not to inquire. He merely placed a hand on her shoulder and let her know that he understood, and she was free to mourn until she was ready. Hitsugaya would never forgive Ichimaru, but he would not condemn Matsumoto for her connection with him either.

She had wiped some of the blood away from his face and neatened the bloodied robes hanging raggedly on his corpse. Hitsugaya had stopped when he was in sight of them, and for the first time since the war began, his battle-hardened eyes had softened.

Let him go, Rangiku. He surprised himself with the use of her first name. But it was appropriate. The woman before him now was not his vice-captain – she was a grieving friend who needed comforting. She was one of the only people he depended on, who knew what went on behind that mask of ice; He was one of the only male figures in her life that she could trust to look past her pretty face and ample chest.

It's over. Let him go.

But he knew it was not near as easy as it sounded. He wasn't physically much different, maybe only a little taller, but he had gotten stronger, colder, less prone to emotion, and more resilient to pain. Still, a part of him remembered what it was like when the only girl he had loved and would ever love had died.

Hinamori. The hollowness still resounded across the frozen landscape of his soul, and no time could ever make it heal. The vengeance did nothing to heal the wounds.

He could imagine what the woman in front of him was feeling.

Matsumoto's grey eyes met his own. She tried to force a grin through her tears and failed. Her voice was hoarse and dry now, as if the strain of acting cheerful and buoyant were finally catching up to her. We always did know it would come to this, didn't we?

Hitsugaya did not answer immediately since he had no answer ready for her. But he looked down at the man Matsumoto was cradling – a traitor, an enemy, but also a man she had loved with her whole heart. The man had saved her in her childhood, and had saved her in the war countless times. An enigma, until the very end. Hitsugaya closed his eyes and was silent for a long time.

...Yes.

He knelt down to her and uncurled her cold fingers from Ichimaru's bloody tunic. Grabbing her hands, he helped her up, even though he was still a good head shorter than her. And she stood slowly, trembling on unsteady legs.

But we will move forward.

And we will remember those we left behind.

They stood in silence for a long time, the taste of grief almost palpable in the bloodied air, stormy grey locked with icy aquamarine. Then, without another word, he turned and left. He would give her time. If he had learned nothing else, the war had taught him patience. The wounds would never heal, but Time would wear the agony away to nothing but a dull ache. He had faith in her, that she would know her priorities, and that she would follow him. In due time, of course. But they had time.

He had squared his young shoulders, aware of the captain's mantle bearing down on him like a dead weight. They would rebuild, they would go forward, and they would remember, but the wounds would never truly heal. Everyone would collect the shattered remains of their hearts and spirits, and let them mend over time. He would not fall here. His division needed him, and there was much to be done. A captain's duty and a leader's heart. But a determined weariness dogged his footsteps. If what he expected was true, it wouldn't be pretty.

The end of the war brought no joy – the silence that reigned on the throne that chaos once occupied was no kinder to its bedraggled subjects. It would be during the peace that thoughts tended to wander endlessly, always, always back to what could have been and what could never be again. The road to recovery would a harsh and trying one, and even long afterwards, they would not lose the insecurity that lurked in the shadow of their souls. They would remember what they once had, what they once lost, and what they had yet to regain.

In those days, hidden weariness hung about him like a shroud, and his schedule was constantly full of tedious and stressing dilemmas, his shoulder was constantly wet from the tears of a grieving subordinate, and his mind reeled from the enormity of the task. He was among those that became the strength and pillars of support that others so desperately needed in their shattered lives, a constant in the tides of rapid change.

He had to rely on his own raw determination and Hyourinmaru's numbingly frozen presence to contain his own emotions and keep him from the edge of insanity. The number of times Matsumoto had arrived at the office, only to find the door frozen securely shut and her stoical captain struggling to get his raging emotions back under control, had attested to his sorely tested nerves. He remembered everything, in all its painful clarity, every detail of every heartbeat they had endured.

But he had survived – it was more instinct than determination. The will to survive, to improve, to surpass had been one of the few constants in his life. He had brought them with him to Soul Society and had no intention of losing them. He would not tolerate defeat from anything, much less something as trivial as stress. He was ice, inexorable and unchanging, despite the unending storm of chaos that surrounding him.

He would live, if only to ensure that the war was not forgotten, and the loss remained sharp in their memories. That they would remember their past mistakes, and never make the same ones ever again. He would not be intimidated.

A dragon was not so easily tamed.

He would not be so easily defeated.

Hitsugaya Toushirou did not forget.

Rewritten January 31, 2007

I've taken huge amounts of creative liberty, and this chapter was not included in the old version of Unending Storm. This chapter was a transition, or a filler, intended help explain how the characters have changed, and how the conflict affected them. Review please, and constructive criticism is more than welcome.

-Karia Ithilai