Looking back at this now, it's not the worst thing I have ever written. In fact I'm proud of it, even though much of my knowledge of Bleach has left me. I'm glad I was able to make Hisagomaru such a manipulative little shit. I'm glad so many people have enjoyed this story.
I'm not so much into Bleach anymore but if you want to check up on me, feel free to visit my tumblr, bombcollar.
One day, Hanatarou decided he would swim, because there was simply nothing else to do.
He stripped off his clothes and waded into the water. They were already soaked and had long ago lost any capacity to keep him warm. Eyes ahead, into the smothering mist rather than look at the starved, corpselike wreck his body had become in this prison. Maybe he had never been impressive, exactly, but he'd kept himself fit. He had to, all of them did, and now it was lost and he'd never feel the sun on his skin again, warm stone under his feet, the touch of those he considered dear. So he swam, not caring how far he went or what he encountered. Hisagomaru had left him alone for now and that was solace enough.
He doesn't keep track of how many strokes it takes before the lake bottom drops away completely and he is left floating above a dark gray abyss, his pale feet dangling below him as he treads to try and catch his breath. This place must be infinite.
Sometimes he passes wooden columns, as thick around as his shoulders are wide, splintered where they emerge from the water, their wood ancient, the paint flaking. They always stand in sets of two, and remind him of the shrines standing out in the sea back in the world of the living.
It comes as a shock when his toes finally scrape the bottom. Unlike the tiny islets he'd languished on for the past months, the lakebed is rough, covered in detritus that cuts his feet. The fog is very thick here, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of his face, still cold, urged by a faint wind that caresses his wet cheeks. He ducks his head beneath the water and opens his eyes.
The lakebed is covered in pottery. Of all things. He'd expected bones, or more chipped stone to match the rest of this hostile place, but there are hundreds of tiny clay figures, like haniwa. People, animals, monsters and spirits. He ducks beneath and scoops up a handful, bringing them to his face with shaking fingers. They have been shattered, but they are all smiling, as if they are relieved to see him, and he is struck with a sudden warm feeling of kinship. This place is supposed to be his. These were his, and now they've been callously broken, tossed to the very extremes of the land and sunken like they were something to be ashamed of. He holds them, clutching their smiling little faces as tears stream down his cheeks, hot, almost painful in this cold, cold place.
It's then that the wind gives one final push, banishing the fog back to the center of the lake. Hanatarou grits his teeth at the chill, but its (because this was supposed to be his land, it existed for him, it bent to his will) reason for doing so is immediately clear. There is no shore to the lake, only a rim, as if the entire thing rested in an enormous bowl. Beyond it is only empty air and swirling fog.
He had seen the aftermath of hurricanes. Towns laid flat by gales and rushing water and the ruin of what had once been homes and places of security. Along the rim of the lake lay a mass of wreckage, the remains of wooden buildings, shrines with their banners now faded and their decorations sunken. It looked like a festival of some sort had been bulldozed by a storm and left to decompose. A brown sludge coats the surface; flowers, thousands of them, rotted into a waterlogged sludge. This place had once had flowers. Of course it had. This was supposed to be his. Supposed to reflect his very soul. He was supposed to feel safe here but it had been stripped and laid barren by the selfish creature within the sword.
"You are not supposed to be here, Hana."
He looks up, and there it is, a little frown of betrayal on its blunt face. The chunks of pottery cut into his fingers as he squeezes them tighter.
"Why would you come all the way out here? There's nothing but a bunch of garbage out here… It isn't safe."
"It's not… garbage," Hanatarou mumbles, looking away, into the depths. Down at the pottery creatures who'd welcomed him with more warmth than he'd felt in lifetimes.
"What was that?" It's closer now, its little paws padding lightly on the surface of the water. "It's a lot of old splintered wood and dead flowers, Hana. It's no good. You'll hurt yourself again, and then I'll have to fix you…"
"Why did you do this?" His voice cracks but he manages to look it in its beady red eyes, which go from wide-eyed concern to narrow anger. It sits, as if anticipating a long conversation, wrapping its tail around itself.
"The same reason I do everything, Hana. I did it for you… You don't need all these childish things. You're an adult. A capable shinigami. I did not want you to be distracted…"
"But this was mine. You had… you had no right to just brush it aside. It was the only part of this place that was me." Hanatarou's voice rises, shaky. "And you destroyed it…"
The spirit sighs as it stands again, starting to circle him. "You still don't understand, after all this time… I did this to help you, to focus you. You were weak, Hana. I didn't want you to get caught up in frivolous things, or you would never get anywhere at all. Of course… It's much too late, now. They're going to put you to sleep, and all my effort will have been wasted."
"It's not… a waste, we tried, Hisa. But you had no right-"
"You are going to DIE, Hana." It whips around, snapping at his face and making him flinch. His foot slips and he falls onto the broken pottery with a yelp of pain. "You are dead already. Dead and forgotten and the only one who was there for you was me! And all you can think about is a bunch of trash I so kindly removed from your training ground!"
The spirit raises its claws to strike him again, but there had already been so much pain, so much cold and discomfort. Hanatarou was tired of it, and if he really was going to die, he would not let himself be pushed aside like so much detritus, like it had tried to do with the rest of him. He thrusts a chunk of broken pottery at Hisagomaru, stabbing it in the rubbery flesh of its neck. It hisses, the wound gushing dark, freezing blood all over his fingers as its claws scrabble at him, tearing into his wrist and knuckles.
"HANA!" It shrieks, sputtering blood, "HANA, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, STOP, YOU HATEFUL IMPUDENT CHILD, I DID ALL OF THIS FOR YOU, I KEPT YOU SAFE, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU!"
But he holds it there by the rope wrapped tightly around its neck as it squirms and claws at him, mutilating every part of him it can reach, teeth tearing chunks from his nose and cheeks and lips. It hurts, but nowhere near as much as it should. He can feel himself fading, growing distant, the fog wrapping itself around him in a shroud. His fog. Every part of this is him and he should have realized that sooner. He had not gotten to say goodbye, but you couldn't have everything in life, and for what it was worth, he had had a good one.
"Ow!"
Getting her braids caught on things was commonplace enough that Isane thinks little of it for the first few seconds. It's only when she remembers what she's doing at the moment, a behavior that had become depressingly routine. That being, seeing to the division's singular coma patient, who had just reached up and grabbed her by the hair. She stares down at him, her jaw slack, as he blinks, wincing in the midmorning light.
"It's bright," he croaks, voice bone-dry after so many months of silence. Isane lets out a breathless giggle, almost hysterical with relief as she holds him to her chest, heedless of any tact or professional decorum. Not that Hanatarou minded, not at this point. Not when he was finally warm again. There are cries for the captain to come, that he was finally awake, but they're faint, in the background, muffled by the sound of Isane's hurried breath and heartbeat. He's so tired, his lids heavy, but he's spent so long asleep he doesn't want to miss a moment of what came next.