Chapter 5: Catalyst
A siren's shrill call blasted the air—loud and foreboding. The sound was so clear, so visceral, it caught in your head and shook your bones. In a word, the din was dreadful. And it continued in several crescendo-ing blasts for a full three minutes.
The siren summoned Shinigami from the 13 divisions and from the specialized squads. With hesitant strides, the soldiers poured into the town square where they huddled together. Fluttering glances and stoic looks belied the tension simmering just beneath the soldiers' thin patina of practiced courage.
It felt like a culling, Hisana noted drily to herself as she surveyed the crowd. Her mind, weary and morbid from sleep deprivation, was quick to make the comparison to large game being corralled for slaughter.
It was disorienting.
The ground seemingly tilted and rolled under her feet as she tried her best to remain upright. But, it wasn't the ground that kept her off balanced. It was the crowd. It moved and shifted erratically, pulling her in all directions at once. She was pushed and shoved and pulled.
Hisana closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath. The noise, the heat, the constant movement was becoming unbearable. 'How much longer?' she wondered wearily. She had only managed a few hours of sleep before a hell butterfly roused her.
Suddenly, the crowd began to thrust her forward. They were being corralled into a building, likely one of the Second's offices. Quiet murmurs sounded in all directions: "What is happening?" "Where are we going?" "Did you hear anything?"
Hisana surveyed the sea of black and white uniforms. Many of the Shinigami belonged to her division. Flashes of recognition lit her brain. Other faces, however, she could not place. Some faces were obscured by the Kido Corps' standard masks.
Hisana shook her head. Amid all of the confusion, she knew one thing was sure: It was going to be a long day filled with waiting.
And, she was right.
She waited and waited and waited.
Nine hours of mind-numbing boredom later, Hisana sat quietly in a chair outside a strange sealed door. The hallway was dark and cold. Blackness cut visibility to only a few meters.
Hisana could barely see her hands balled nervously in her lap. A wet cold sweat slickened her skin. Reflexively, she rubbed her palms against the coarse material of her hakama. 'What is this?' she wondered to herself. The oppressive, almost deafening, silence and darkness had finally gotten to her, unraveling her quickly fraying nerves.
"Would you care for a refreshment, Vice Captain?" The guard's voice cut through her inner turmoil like a blade through heavy cloth.
She started, straightening in her seat and lifting her head. It took an embarrassing amount of effort just to focus on the lowly Shinigami standing watch at the door. Hisana blinked, hoping it would moisten her aching eyes. "Yes, please," she murmured drowsily.
With a wag of a finger, the guard summoned a fresh-faced boy. In a flash, the boy kneeled before her. In his small hands was a cup of water. Obediently, he brought his hands up and bowed his head. "Thank you," she whispered softly, taking the cast iron cup from him.
Wordlessly, the boy disappeared into the shadows.
Hisana frowned. The Second was a strange place. The Shinigami were so dutiful, so compliant, like robots. Not in ten thousand years could she train her heart to be so subservient.
"Is it to your liking, Vice Captain?" the guard asked, staring straight ahead into the middle distance.
Hisana took a small sip. Her throat tensed; it was so parched that swallowing proved painful. "Yes," she said in a throaty voice, glancing up at the guard. She could not make out his face. A black cloth covered his nose and mouth, and dark shadows welled over his eyes. "Thank you." She smiled and nodded her head. "May I ask, what is the purpose of this meeting?"
"Was the Vice Captain not informed?" he asked, motionless. So still, in fact, that Hisana briefly wondered if she had imagined his question.
She shook her head. "The transmission was woefully short on specifics." She had no doubt that such was standard operating procedure at the Second. The division was notoriously guarded when it came to providing information. It was their source of control. Nothing happened in Soul Society without their knowledge.
"That was an oversight," he said.
Hisana doubted it. Suì-Fēng ran a tight ship. She left nothing to chance. Her hands and eyes touched everything that came into or exited the division. She was that good, that dedicated, that obsessive.
"We are testing healers."
'That explains why my division was summoned…' Hisana tilted her head to the side. "Testing healers for what?"
"Compatibility."
Hisana blinked. Her eyelids fluttered, and her lips parted, forming a small "O." 'Compatibility,' seemed like such a strange word. Compatibility with what? Her eyes narrowed as she considered her own question. The word posed a riddle; one that she could not answer.
"Vice Captain, it is your turn," the guard said softly. He stepped to the side, allowing her entrance.
Hisana stood, and, bowing slightly in the guard's direction, she slipped through the seal. Upon crossing the threshold, a deep darkness fell over her. Quickly, she blinked to ensure that she was, in fact, perceiving the blackness that surrounded her.
She was.
Frantic, like a drowning person, she flailed around, relying on her other senses. The room's smell was thick and musky. The type of fragrance that came in through the nose, crawled down the throat, and strangled the breath. The air was cold and heavy, swirling across her hands and face. She was almost certain that the darkness was watching her, sensing her.
"Hello?" she murmured, hoping that what she was experiencing was not in her imagination. Pivoting on her heel, she turned. Then, she saw it. A small pinprick of yellow light pulled her eye. She took a few steps forward.
Two burly men stood deep inside the room. They puffed their chests out and crossed their massive arms behind their backs. A table separated the men. On the table sat a small golden box; the box was the source of the luminance.
"Vice Captain Hisana."
Hisana stopped dead at the sound of her name. She had never heard her name spoken in such a cold, calculating tenor. Immediately, her muscles forced her into a deep bow before her mind could put it together. "Captain Suì-Fēng," she said, "please forgive my impertinence."
Still bowed down, Hisana lifted her head slightly to see the captain step into the soft warm effulgence spilling forth from the box. Suì-Fēng stood ramrod straight with her shoulders level and her hands behind her back. "Approach," she said clearly, powerfully.
Hisana obeyed. Without hesitation, she straightened and moved forward. Reaching the relic, Suì-Fēng uttered a sharp command, "Halt."
Gently, the Captain reached into the box and withdrew a gold vambrace. The captain flipped the armor up and unfastened the buckles. Inside the vambrace were several sharp, thin mechanisms; the mechanisms reminded Hisana of an insect's stingers.
"Give me your dominate hand, Vice Captain," Suì-Fēng commanded. The captain inclined her head and extended her arm forward. Her fingers unfurled, exposing her palm.
Hesitant, Hisana lifted her right arm toward the Captain's outstretched hand. Before her weight had settled, Suì-Fēng yanked her forward, toward the vambrace. Hisana turned her head, shielding her eyes. She couldn't explain it, but she was certain that the stingers would pierce her skin.
A gasp, however, forced her attention to the golden relic. It sprang to life. A bright glow poured out from the armlet, and the stingers began to move in small staccato circles.
Hisana swallowed. Hard. What did this mean? Her eyes, large and searching, examined the strange relic. It seemingly reached out toward her. The sharp thin stingers began to hone in on her reiatsu, and they became rigid, turning toward her arm.
"The second one all day," Suì-Fēng murmured triumphantly as she dropped Hisana's arm. Swift and sure, the captain spun around on the balls of her feet, and replaced the vambrace.
"What happened?" Hisana asked, confused.
The captain stared at Hisana as if she had asked the most obvious of questions. "You are compatible." A silent, 'Of course!' caught in the captain's eyes, but the expression did not leave her mouth.
Hisana's brow furrowed. Again, that word, "compatible." What did it mean? she could not help but wonder.
"Only the power of healers with repentant hearts can deactivate the King' Fire. You possess that power." The captain shook her head, dismayed by Hisana's ignorance. "You are dismissed."
. . . .
Byakuya sat in front of his writing desk. The smooth buttery mahogany wood reflected his image back at him. Unwittingly, his eyes lingered over his likeness. He looked tired, pale. He looked like he had seen better days.
He had seen better days.
The funeral preparations took a toll on him. As Sōjun's only child, it was his responsibility to oversee everything. The House, however, was eager to direct his efforts. Too eager.
With little joy, he set a piece of parchment on the desktop, and he withdrew his ink stone and brush. Quick, familiar strokes guided his hand. The bristles of the brush flowed across the page, an extension of his soul. For a moment, he felt respite. The tension in his body faded muscle by muscle, and his dark trouble thoughts subsided. For a moment, he could breathe easy. His heart could find its natural pace. For a moment, he pushed his immense sadness and loss aside.
Then, his letter was complete. He stared down at it, seeing it without actually reading the words. His calligraphy was admirable considering his state. But, it could have been better. More controlled, more aesthetic. It would do, however.
He folded the letter in half, and he sealed it. The red wax bore his family's crest. Waiting for it to dry, he pushed it to the corner of the desk. He then reached for another sheet. His long thin fingers peeled the paper back and centered it in front of him. He gently dipped his brush in the ink. He was just about to compose another letter when a strange sinking feeling seized his muscles.
Byakuya inhaled a deep breath, and, with equal measure, he exhaled. "Enter," he murmured, feeling a presence lingering just outside his door. It was his aunt. He knew because he caught her inky silhouette through the rice paper.
In the proper manner, she opened the door, revealing her small kneeling figure. She did not enter. No, she came bearing news. "Lord Kuchiki," she began, head lowered and voice soft.
He prickled at the title. He would warm to it, he told himself every time someone uttered the title in his direction. Like a toddler donning his father's clothing, it did not quite fit him. He would grow into "Lord Kuchiki." He would inherit his father's wisdom. But, it would take time.
"We have to discuss your future betrothal."
He went numb. An imperfect stroke of the brush left black ugly splotch on the otherwise fine parchment. "It is soon." His voice, while soft, was firm and cool. He glimpsed her in his peripheral vision. The glance was fleeting, and he continued writing. The words spewing forth were meaningless, now. A mere distraction.
His aunt stared at the floor. Her red lips trembled. Perhaps his sudden coldness offended her. Perhaps she did not want to be there, saying the things she had been charged to say. Byakuya was not sure; however, he was in no mood to entertain such trifling thoughts at that moment.
"Your grandfather," she murmured.
Byakuya's hand stopped, but he refused to look at her. "Yes," he said with quiet rage.
"Your grandfather has pledged you to Lady Nanako."
Byakuya lifted his head. He shut his eyes and inhaled a deep breath. He was too tired, too beaten down to fight. It would have been gauche. It would have been disrespectful to his father's memory.
His reaction was expected.
A warm current of anger heated the blood and tensed the muscle. His grandfather was an excellent strategist. One of the best. The best, in fact. Ginrei knew Byakuya would capitulate. Ginrei knew Byakuya would not make a scene so close to his father's funeral. No, Byakuya would not refuse the family so close to his father's death. He would be obedient. He would be practical. He would marry in a few months' time. His family's tragedy would quickly be replaced with joy. His family's tragedy would be forgotten. Like Yoruichi Shihōin and his mother, Sōjun's memory would fade until it felt like he had always been dead. Time would reset the default—to fathom Sōjun living would be alien, foreign.
A marriage would speed that process along. A marriage would provide a breath of fresh air. It would lighten the soul and soften the heart. It would be a diversion, concealing the horrors that befell their family with alarming frequency.
Byakuya refused to be that distraction. "I will properly mourn my father's passing. Only then will I discuss this arrangement." His voice was soft but forceful.
His aunt glanced up at him. "Lady Nanako will be at the funeral tomorrow. It would be polite to speak to her then."
"I will do no such thing," he said firmly.
. . . .
Hisana stared into the rushing water. Over a short cliff, the water came crashing down at a steady tempo. The sound filled her ears, wiping her mind clean. She could almost feel her soul reaching out to the cool liquid. She yearned to feel the current swirl against her skin, cleansing her of the private tragedies she had suffered. Feeling the water's warmth pooling against her hand, she shut her eyes and breathed easy for a spell.
It was late. Too late to be awake, but sleep refused her. She had tossed in her bed for three hours. She counted tiles, straws, even the threads of her yukata. Her mind would not retire. So there she was, sitting with her legs dangling in the spring's warm water. The steam rose from the spring, consuming the area in a dense humid fog.
It was lovely.
Hisana ran her hand down her thigh. The cloth of her garment bunched at her knees, and she knotted her fingers in loose material. Gently, she pulled the yukata up to the middle of her thigh as she stretched her legs deeper into the water. "They hadn't lied," she murmured, exhaling a breath. Her eyes went blurry for a moment as she relished the heat. It soothed her, easing the tension from her legs.
She was about to unknot her yukata and disrobe when her fingers stiffened. She sensed the intrusion before her mind had the chance to process it. Whoever it was, he wanted to be known. He was too close, too stealthy. He could have gone unnoticed to her weary mind. Indeed, he was trying to pull her attention.
And pull her attention he did.
Hisana turned to the disturbance. The familiar reiatsu swirled around her, and her lips turned up into a small tender smile. "Lord Kuchiki," she said glancing up at him. He stood dressed casually. His hair was down, loosely falling around his shoulders. His robes were plain, inexpensive. He stood a stone's throw away, staring down at her with his patented inscrutable expression.
An incredible feeling of regret overwhelmed her. It was sudden, but it was complete. Hisana quickly turned her cheek, hoping to hide her despair. Guilt, warranted or not, flowed through her at a steady beat. It had been her constant companion for the last few days.
"I sent a courier with a message, but you were not there," Byakuya said. His tone was deep but gentle. He made an observation, not a judgment.
Hisana lowered her head. She pulled her hand in her sleeve and gently dabbed the material against her tear-stained cheek. "Oh?" she managed in a strangled breath. Funny how he seemed so composed in comparison, she mused to herself. How did he do it? She was an absolute wreck.
Silence slipped between them. And then she realized that he was waiting. He was waiting for her to address him properly, like the lord he was. "Please, forgive my manners," she said, turning to him.
Her gaze slowly trailed up to his face. The starlight lit him, casting a silvery sheen on his fair features. He looked truly regal, staring down at her. He was all fine lines and smooth skin. He possessed an uncommon beauty.
His expression softened as he watched her.
"Isn't it late for a young lord to be wandering the hinterland?" she teased softly.
He lifted his head at her question, but he chose to ignore it. "You made an offer several days ago," he noted, matter-of-factly.
Hisana's eyes widened. "Oh?" She failed to recall any offers.
"You offered to assist me with my examination preparation."
"I did," she said, tilting her head to the side. She remembered the conversation well. He had been so nervous then. She had wondered what had set him aflutter. Initially, she assumed it was examination season. She could barely concentrate during exams. Any little thing distracted her. It was unbearable.
But, he wasn't distracted then. No. He had leaned toward her with that unmistakable look on his face. She knew the look, not from her own experience, but from plays and from the occasional stolen glances of young lovers. She hadn't moved away from that look. She should have moved. She vowed to move away in the future.
"Does it still stand?" he asked.
Hisana clenched her jaws, and her gaze fell to the rocky ground. "Have you ever made a choice that wasn't yours to make?" she asked somberly.
He shifted at the question. She could see the lines of his shadow bend. "Of course, you have," she murmured softly to herself. Her eyes flashed up, catching the silver of the moonlight. Gleaming through the darkness, her gaze and his gaze locked. "I have to make such a choice now." Holding his look, she stood.
He raised his head, and his brows furrowed. Pain colored his face and curled his fingers into fists. He was good at restraining his deepest feelings. Bereavement, however, was a hard beast to conquer.
Without a second thought, she reached out imploringly. She understood his pain for she felt it too. Perhaps, she did not know the extent or the depth of his sorrow. But, she knew its sting, and she felt its hunger—constant and horrible.
He stared down at her hand, shimmering in the starlight. Pain stayed him, made him hesitant. Pain, however, was transformative. It was quick to morph into a suffocating melancholia. As it transformed, the need for companionship innervated his heart.
His fingers slowly unfurled from the fists they made by his side. The muscles were slow to loosen, stiff from tension. But she remained constant. Her gaze was unrelenting in its tenderness.
His reached out, tentatively taking her hand in his. Her skin was so soft. Her hand was so small. His hand enveloped hers completely.
The change was instant. Whether she had employed a healing technique or if it was just her calmness, he felt different. His pain ameliorated, pulling away like the waves pulling back into the ocean. He exhaled and closed his eyes. His grip on her tightened. He pulled her fast against him, and they embraced in the twilight.