Year Three: Summer

Bodies of flame and steel or of flesh and sinew all die. This fact is one Byakuya knows well in theory. The practice of attending death, however, is where he fails.

It's the pain.

He feels it everywhere.

It comes in waves. It comes all at once. It starts. It stops. It sears and crackles, scorching hotter than the heat of summer.

The pain from the blade is easier to heal. The body's processes happen automatically with little conscious thought paid from him. The pain from the loss, of a bond severed, continues to bleed.

What little instruction that the Fourth imparted to Byakuya is promptly ignored by both Byakuya and his family. There is duty to which to attend. Duty is prioritized over the individual. Duty belongs to the family, to the collective machine. He cannot rest when the machine requires his blood to function.

And, so, he lets his blood.


Sleep denies him sanctuary.

Ineffable emotion fills him fuller than food. Existence becomes perfunctory, a puppet with a million strings. Head full of silence. Heart going cold. Stomach empty but not clenched. When his thoughts begin to slip the chain of chemical numbness, he leans into the physical pain to ward away the remains of what he feels.

Bodies heal even when you ignore them. Byakuya continues as if other damage proceeds similarly. The initial frenzy carries him. Then, it ceases. Once the machine goes quiet, his strings are cut, leaving him with thoughts that slip and a body that no longer bleeds or weeps.

Sleep comes for him, then.


It's been days. He's been sleeping for days and days. He could sleep for days and days more.

The physician told him time cures all.

Byakuya decides to take this advice literally. He waits for the magical number of hours to collect in the oblivion of slumber and is surprised to find when he wakes that he feels no better.


"Milord," a voice enters the room. Byakuya thinks it's Seike, and he turns from his desk, from the blank white page that torments him.

"Purpose?" he asks wearily and watches the flickering of his shadow keep time with the beat of the lantern's flame.

"Correspondence, milord."

"Enter." He sighs and reaches out his arm preemptively.

When the door slides open, Seike quietly hands him the mail in batches, which surprises Byakuya.

"Why are there so many?" he asks.

"We were instructed to hold back non-essential transmittals so as not to overwhelm you while you recovered."

He is still recovering.

Byakuya frowns as he tries to pile the letters in a tidy stack. The stack becomes a tower. The tower falls, spilling missives everywhere. "I see," he says quietly. "You're dismissed."

Byakuya catches the shifting of shadows signaling Seike's departure from the room. Before the retainer shuts the door, however, he pauses at the threshold to ask, "Would milord enjoy any food or tea?"

Byakuya shakes his head.

The clack of wood settles him, and he begins to sort the letters. As daunting as he initially finds this task, there is an easy repetition to it that calms him with time. Most of the letters are condolences from souls that Byakuya scarcely knows and souls that Byakuya knows far too well.

Reading the letters spends him.

He makes it through two before discarding the rest.

The next set of letters are invitations to events. Some are perfunctory invitations, ones that he would receive regardless of his condition because they come to everyone who exists within a certain circle. Other invitations are more personal in nature, requests for tea, or lunch, or dinner. Almost all of these are for events that have long since passed and were sent with goodwill that surely has long since expired. He discards these as well.

Finally, there are the letters from Hisana. He saves these for last. She wrote him every day for a week. Her correspondences then become weekly as is their custom during the harsh winter months.

He hasn't the heart to read them all at once. Instead, he goes slowly. One at a time. He starts with the oldest letter first.

Dearest Lord Byakuya, There are 1,081 days until graduation! I am taking an art elective, and I am terrible at it. Enclosed is my first attempt at sketching a nightingale. Don't laugh. (Actually, do laugh. I'd laugh if I hadn't missed the cutoff date for dropping this class.) I know it could use a lot of improvement, but I thought my terrible art might distract you. The instructor saw it, and I'm pretty sure it made him pull the last strand of hair from his head. So, you've been forewarned. Yours truly, H.

Byakuya feels the tension from his face melt as he turns to the sketch. His brows pull together and he rotates the sheet of paper. He isn't sure that what she's drawn is a bird or a tangle of noodles, and he grins.

So begins a quiet nightly ritual.

Byakuya goes about his day, struggling to keep his head above the turmoil that threatens to drown him. Before he crawls into bed, he sorts his mail and reads one of Hisana's letters. The first seven are lively retellings of happenings at the Academy. Unlike the countless condolence letters that he received, Hisana is careful never to veer into subjects too weighty or emotional, and, for that, Byakuya is grateful. She writes to divert him, to give him a sense of the conversational normalcy they share in person.

He appreciates the respite.

Her weekly correspondences are far briefer than her initial writings. They are more standard to the letters that he and she usually trade. Sometimes she shares a humorous anecdote, and sometimes he receives only a line of poetry, a clipping of some article that she found interesting, a page from one of the Twelfth's magic puzzle games, or a piece of art.

When he reaches the last of her letters, he considers it with a heavy heart.

Dearest Lord Byakuya, There are 1,024 days until graduation! Nothing particularly exciting happened last week at the Academy. We went on a field trip to the World of the Living, but it was boring. We landed in an actual field. Sadly, there were no trains. We all puzzled as to why a hollow would wander this far away from civilization. That was probably the most exciting part of the trip. Unrelated to class, however, I ran across this enclosed trinket while at the market on a different kind of "field trip" to visit a cosmetics boutique. (The circumstances necessitating this excursion were most grave and no more consensual than the Academy's field trip abroad, but I digress.) As you may recall, you and I wandered through the market one winter night because it was empty, and you spotted one of these little guys in a storefront. You were very understated about your enthusiasm, so don't worry. No one else could have possibly known from your face just how thrilled you were to spy this creature. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. Yours truly, H. P.S. I bought this item called "lip gloss" from the boutique. It makes my lips slimy and gross. I don't know why, but I thought you'd want to know. Do not recommend.

Grinning, Byakuya plucks the trinket from the envelope to discover a small brown wooden doll carved into the shape of a rabbit. His heart gives a hard squeeze, and the tension leaves his shoulders. He's stunned that she remembered.

Hisana couldn't have known why he stopped to stare into the window that cold winter night or why the little wooden animals drew his attention. Nor did she press him or tease him about what she must have perceived to be a curious preference. She merely noted his happiness and its source.

Father did that as well when he was a boy. Father went to great lengths to bring him any measure of joy during his childhood, including carving silly figurines from the wood sourced during their walks in the forest. At the time, Byakuya thought this was just the sort of thing parents did for their children.

Now, he wonders if Father was trying to make up for the absence of Byakuya's mother.

Father enjoyed the carvings, Byakuya thinks. It seemed fitting for Father to subvert the use of a blade to create rather than destroy. Father never cared for battle or blood or guts. Not like Byakuya did. Perhaps this, too, was a lesson that Father had tried to impart with those carvings and those walks in the wood.

Reflexively, Byakuya stares into the corner of the room where he used to keep Father's creations. He'd play with them before bed, imagining entire battles and strategies and dividing the animals in various Gotei 13 squads on the basis of type and "personality."

Turning the bunny figurine in his hand, Byakuya wonders why Hisana selected this one for him. Perhaps it was the most affordable. Or, maybe she thought it was cute. He thinks the bunny would be a member of the Thirteenth. Numerous bunnies roamed the grounds of that squad when he and Father last took tea with Captain Ukitake.

None of Father's carvings remain in his quarters. They were packed away and placed into storage after Byakuya's coming-of-age ceremony decades ago. No one had told him beforehand that they would go into his rooms, collect all his things, and take them away. He was heartbroken when he came home and discovered all his treasured objects were gone. His aunts told him that it was time for him to put away all his childish things and become a man.

Then, they forced him to express gratitude because it had taken them so long to clear his room.

Afterward, he cried all night into his pillow.

Now, he keeps very little here. Only his desk, writing implements, a bed, clothes, a few books, and the little ball that Hisana gave him. He supposes this is how adults comport themselves. He doesn't remember Father's room containing much more. Perhaps Father kept his personal effects at the barracks.

Setting the carving on the desk, Byakuya frowns.

He supposes that his aunts did what they did to teach him about the error of bonding too deeply with material things. Anything can be taken away or destroyed, and adults aren't supposed to feel stirred once it happens. Perhaps the lesson was that adults aren't supposed to feel much at all toward anything.

Grandfather embodies this principle. He certainly didn't mourn Father the way some of the Sixth's subordinates mourned, with their tears, wet faces, and gasping sobs. In fact, Grandfather didn't seem to mourn Father at all. No downcast eyes, no hardened jaw, no furrowed brow, no distant gazes. He appeared bored at every event, as if he had better places to be and more important tasks to be doing.

Perhaps all bonds should be severed instead of celebrated. Perhaps that is the true lesson. A life without the potential of grief seems preferable to this.

Byakuya lifts his chin and stares at the little wooden rabbit.

He knows what he should do next, but the thought strangles his heart.

A heart is a terrible thing to keep, he thinks.

He also thinks he knows a way to kill it, which would spare him from future suffering.

And, so, with heart barely beating, he reaches for the ink and the brush, and he drafts a letter. Once written, cold numbness prevails, freezing his heart still, and he summons Seike.

"Yes, milord?"

"Please deliver this to Miss Hisana," he says, his voice flat, his gaze averted.

Seike takes the letter from him. "Of course, milord."

"Place these in storage with the rest of my childhood things." Byakuya hands Seike both the carving and the little ball.

"Yes, milord." Seike returns to the door but pauses short of the threshold. "May I inquire as to the purpose of the letter?"

Heavy arctic silence comes between them.

"In case, Miss Hisana has any questions," Seike adds.

"She won't have any questions. The message is clear."

"Very good, milord."

The clack of the door feels final, and Byakuya is left alone encased in impenetrable solitude.


Byakuya receives two more letters from Hisana, leaving him to wonder whether Seike performed his duty. Perhaps the retainer reviewed Byakuya's correspondence and deemed it too cruel to deliver. Byakuya thinks never returning to the bridge and leaving her to wonder is crueler than the words he put to paper. Seike, however, understands people better than Byakuya. Seike also seems to have a special fondness for Hisana, having leapt to her defense when Byakuya tried to fire her when she was a maid.

Perhaps Seike did as ordered, and these two are her response.

Byakuya doesn't read them. He hasn't a heart. But he keeps them, along with all her other letters, on the corner of his desk, just in case a pulse returns.


Weeks pass and Byakuya thinks he may have conquered his heart. This victory, however, is short-lived when he glimpses the pale haze of twilight and stops to stare into the garden from his room. The urge to go to her remains, but its weight is thready.

"Milord, Lord Kuchiki requests your presence for dinner," calls Seike from beyond the threshold.

"I will be there shortly."

Seike's silhouette drifts over the silk inserts in the door until it disappears from Byakuya's line of sight.

Listlessly, Byakuya traces the halls to the dining room and finds his place at the table. He feels Grandfather's gaze burn his cheeks, but he is slow to give his pleasantries. When he does, his eyes are trained on the grains of rice set in front of him. The smell of lamb and vegetables summons forth a wave of nausea, and he pushes the food toward the center of the table.

"Rare for you to be in residence to respond to one of my calls for dinner," observes Grandfather.

Byakuya lowers his head, struggling to remember when he last had been called away at this time. It's been months. Not since before Father….

Grandfather must read the confusion spreading across his face because Grandfather quickly adds, "I take it you no longer see her."

Byakuya blinks. The words reach him in working order, but his brain struggles to make sense of them. "Her?" It's as if Grandfather is referring to a ghost. Byakuya is aware that the servants believe the manor to be haunted, but surely Grandfather is not taken in by such superstition.

"The Academy girl that you've been seeing at the family's restaurants," Grandfather further clarifies.

Hisana.

Byakuya averts his gaze to the garden. The hydrangeas' colors are less saturated when drenched in the golden shades of twilight. "Did you receive reports on that as well?"

"We did."

Unsurprised by this answer, Byakuya sinks further inside himself, into his own dread and despair. He doesn't know what to say.

Is there anything to say?

What was the question, again?

"One of my last conversations with Sōjun was over one such a report."

Byakuya detects neither the sharp notes of disappointment nor disapproval in this observation. Although, his brain hasn't been too swift to pick up on the emotional resonance of much lately. "My sincerest apologies," he mutters, "for my shameful diversions to have occupied your last moments with Father."

"Don't be dramatic, Byakuya," sighs Grandfather. "It was one of the most benign reports either of us had ever read on the topic of romantic liaisons assumed by members of this family. We spent most of our time trying to determine when last either of us had heard you laugh."

Byakuya's brows pinch together. "Heard me laugh?" he repeats the words as if they had been uttered in a foreign tongue. "How did that come up?"

"One of the hostesses mentioned it in her report. She said that she often heard you laughing with the girl. Sōjun said he couldn't remember the last time that he heard you laugh. I said that I think you laughed at a joke made at Haruko's expense almost a year ago." Grandfather pauses and glances up as if trying to recall the instance. "But, now that I revisit that memory, it was more of a tittering. Not true laughter."

"I don't titter," says Byakuya, flatly.

"You tittered, then. I'm certain of it."

Byakuya thinks if Grandfather's mustache wasn't so thick, he'd spy a grin. "I'm no longer seeing her," he replies grimly.

Grandfather lifts his chin. "Is she aware of your sudden indifference?"

Byakuya returns to staring into the garden. "I haven't seen or spoken to her since…." He can't say the words. Merely thinking them stops his heart, makes him feel like he's betraying his father. "She's intelligent enough to understand that extended absence portends a change of heart."

He suspects Seike didn't give her the letter.

"I assume that she was the girl tending to you at the Fourth. The one I sent away. Unless there is another—"

"There are no others. There's no one, now. I understand that I allowed sentimentality to get the better of me, and I resolve never to do so again." The words leave him feeling empty and depleted.

"A new leaf, then, is it?" Grandfather exhales a hard breath. "Haruko and your other aunts will be delighted to learn the news that you've cut ties with the Academy girl."

"Were they waiting with bated breath?"

"Them and the Shimazu family both."

Byakuya sucks in his cheeks. "I see."

His stomach drops as realization crests. The reason his aunties have been so quiet about their marriage plans for him is because they've been lying in wait of this very moment. He's not sure what he finds more upsetting: The fact that he's so predictable or the fact that his family has been meaning to ensnare him for nearly a year and he never suspected a thing.

Grandfather slides a thin folder across the table. Byakuya takes it in hand and turns back the cover to find the results of his lieutenant's examination. No surprises. He passed. The date of the final report, however, reveals that Grandfather has been holding onto this news since before Father….

Byakuya winces and closes the file.

"I thought you'd have a better reaction."

"Laughter, perhaps?" asks Byakuya.

Grandfather looks away and shakes his head. "You've never been easy."

Father was easy. This thought comes with reflexive speed. Byakuya has been told this simple fact his entire life. It's always the refrain that follows directly after, "Byakuya is difficult," or "Byakuya is cocky," or "Byakuya is arrogant." It's the comparison that proves the premise, and that premise has been and continues to be that Byakuya lacks some necessary ingredient that his father and presumably all Kuchiki leaders possess.

"I wasn't easy, either," says Grandfather, defying expectation. "That's probably why I had seven wives."

Byakuya smirks, and, for a hint of a second, he thinks he catches Grandfather grin.

"I only liked one of them," Grandfather continues, "the last one."

"Because you no longer had to remarry?" asks Byakuya, certain that Grandfather is being facetious.

"No," he snorts. "But, I was a fool. All men must be forgiven for being made foolish by love."

Byakuya lowers his head. "I resolve to be made a fool no longer."

"Poppycock!" says Grandfather. "You're being foolish as we speak. Punishing yourself for no reason." Another long shake of the head. "But, that's not why I called upon you tonight."

"You don't mean to upbraid me for my past indiscretions?"

"I always mean to do that." The glittering light of the gloaming dances in Grandfather's eyes. "Sōjun was very proud of you in all that you did."

Byakuya turns his cheek. "I can think of a few instances where that was not the cas—"

"I'm being charitable, Byakuya. Allow me to finish." Grandfather glares at him for a long moment before continuing, "As I was saying, Sōjun was very proud of you and all that you've accomplished. His time as Lieutenant of the Sixth was far shorter than any of us had wished it to be, but he was certain that you would make a fine officer." With this, Grandfather gives Father's lieutenant badge to Byakuya.

"I, too, believe you shall make a fine officer," says Grandfather.

Byakuya runs his thumb over the insignia, a camellia. He wishes that he had received this honor without the sacrifice. His shoulders sag, and his chin dips down to his neck.

He feels nothing as he stares into the symbol of pride and valor that he once imagined receiving on better terms in his youth.

"As is customary for our family, there are conditions attached to you assuming this role, Byakuya." Grandfather sounds as weary delivering this news as Byakuya feels receiving it.

Byakuya closes his eyes and girds himself.

"The family agrees to allow you to assume this position once you have completed your training."

"When will that be?"

"Two years. Your normal lessons will continue until next summer—"

"And next summer?" Byakuya's eyes narrow.

"You will be sent away for a year to study under Toshiaki Shimazu."

"Sent away?" parrots Byakuya. "Where?"

"Keikaboku in the Eastern Third District."

"The mountains, then?"

"The mountains." Grandfather nods. "After which you will marry in the spring and then you may assume the rank of lieutenant."

"Marriage?"

Grandfather stares at him impassively. "The family initially demanded that you secure them an heir before they would consent to you joining the Sixth. Be grateful that Sōjun and I managed to lure them off this point."

"Who will serve as Lieutenant during these next two years?"

"Ginjirō Shirogane will assume the role of Interim Lieutenant while you complete your training."

"Any other conditions?" Byakuya sets the badge on the table and stares distantly ahead.

"You should go celebrate," says Grandfather, quietly. "I'm sure there is at least one soul left in this city who still can barely tolerate you."

Byakuya doesn't think there is. Not anymore. "Thank you, Grandfather."

"You're dismissed, Byakuya."

Byakuya takes the file and badge and leaves. He returns to his rooms, places these items on his desk, and stares at the little pile of letters that he keeps from Hisana. She hasn't sent him a letter since….

He had been so certain that severing this bond was the appropriate course of action, all things considered. Now, he thinks he was a fool. He misses her. Misses her dearly.

Byakuya's fingers slip the first of her last two letters out of the stack. If this truly is her reply to his terse ending, he doesn't think he has the heart to read it, not if she detailed the pain that he has caused her, which he can't be sure that she didn't. He prefers her rage and anger. He deserves those things and worse.

Byakuya pushes the envelope against the wall and stares miserably into the blank white page set before him. He has no words to give it.

He then glances sidelong at the bed. The sheets are no longer rumpled, and the pillows have been fluffed. It looks inviting. He could sleep until next summer, he thinks. Perhaps, then, he would feel better with the deaths of his own making further digested.

A knock on the door, however, forces him to straighten. "Yes?"

"Mail for milord." It's Seike.

"Enter."

Seike draws open the door and peers inside. "Correspondences mostly from the family."

"Mostly?" His heart beats.

"Two invitations from the squads to—"

Byakuya takes the letters before Seike can finish. "I see," he says.

"Does milord have any outgoing matters?"

Byakuya shakes his head.

"Shall I fetch him fresh ink and paper?"

"No. I have no need."

Seike bows his head low. "Tea, perhaps?"

Byakuya nods. "Tea."

Seike leans forward to pull the door shut, but, before he can, Byakuya stops him with a quiet look. "Yes, milord?"

"Did you successfully deliver that letter to Miss Hisana?"

Seike's eyes dart to the side. "She was not at the bridge the last two times I attempted the delivery."

Byakuya's heart sinks, and his gaze drops to the tatami.

"I have seen her on the bridge this month while running other errands. So, she does occasionally return. I could—"

Byakuya shakes his head. "No. Thank you, Seike. You are dismissed."

The door clacks closed, and Byakuya reaches for the letter that he shoved against the wall. His fingers swiftly pry it open, and he grins. It's a painting of a nightingale, similar to the one that she had attempted previously. It's very handsome.

He then turns his attention to the last piece of correspondence that she sent him weeks ago. He opens it to find a letter.

Dear Lord Byakuya, I have written this letter at least twenty times, and I now fear my penmanship is actually worsening. Don't laugh. (Although, I know you will agree.) After twenty unsuccessful attempts, you'd think I would've run out of words or hope. But, you know me better than that. The words here are apparent in number. Hope, however, is sometimes harder to pin. I hope my letters and my pitiable attempts at art have brought you some distraction, but perhaps they have not. I understand if you haven't the strength to return my correspondence. I also hope that my attempts at diversion have not brought you any ill feelings. Fearing the latter may be the case, I will desist from writing as frequently as I have. I understand if your heart has shifted. Grief has a way of bringing clarity to things that we may have been able to overlook previously. As much as I want to tell you that I miss you dearly, I realize that feeling is a burden that only I must bear. Instead, I wish to tell you that my friendship remains unwavering now and forever. May we meet again in this life or the next. With greatest admiration, H.

Sorrow fills him as he folds the letter and returns it to its envelope. He hasn't severed this bond completely, but he has damaged it probably beyond recognition. If he were to go to her now, even assuming she would be there to receive him, what could he possibly say?

He can't even find the words to put to page. He's far less able at speaking his feelings directly. Would there even be a pulse left between them?

Perhaps he should try. She deserves a proper ending, at the very least.

Tomorrow.


When twilight shatters the afternoon sky, lighting up its cracks in gold, Byakuya returns to the bridge and waits for Hisana. A piece of him wishes to see her, to be in her presence once more. The larger piece of him, though, has abandoned all hope. This piece gains momentum as the firmament darkens and the stars begin to shine.

He is moments from leaving but finds a tether in the sound of an impertinent voice.

"You look terrible," she says.

Reflexively, he swallows and turns to find her standing barely an arm's length away. Hisana is more beautiful than he remembers, even dressed in her Academy uniform. His heart beats.

"You still come here," are the only words that he can cobble together.

"Less often, now," she says quietly, "but I'm glad I came tonight." She appears tense at the last part as if she is bracing for what can only be an inevitable "farewell."

Byakuya averts his eyes. He can't. His heart, now beating, won't let him. He loves her.

And, so, instead of "goodbye," he offers her his hand.

"Walk with me."

It has been only a few months since he last saw her. It feels far longer. Time has been made glacial by grief, convincing him that entire centuries have passed in their time apart.

Hisana stares into his palm. He watches as hesitance creases her brow and stays her, but these bonds do not keep. Tentatively, she places her hand in his. Its weight is light, its shape so small, but it feels like everything and more.

As gently as he can, he urges her to his side, and, for the first time since they met, they walk across the bridge together.