Intermission - Passing
The Brass Beetle District sat at the edges of the Rukongai, in these liminal lands far from the prosperity of the inner districts, but not yet plagued by the utter ruin and destitution of the outermost district. It was a place of poverty, and life, and joy. It was a place where to simply own a pair of sandals was a sign of wealth and status, but one where every street corner had a rackety stall where a peddler hawked rough, fragrant foods. It was filled with drinking songs, with the smell of sweat, and blood, and booze, with refuse piled at the street corners and flowers growing on window sills, with the laughter of children, the insults of brawling men, the rumbling of dice and the weeping of unfortunate gamblers. It was a place where steel-eyed crime lords enforced ruthless rackets outside Soul Society's laws, and a place where the selfsame lords sat on the porch of their small house, giving a laughing blessing to street urchins who dared each other to approach the coarse and burly thugs.
It was where Madarame Ikkaku had been born, and it was where he would be buried. His Captain would have it no other way.
The march of the Shinigami through the streets of the district had sent the population in a panic and set the gangs to a frenzy of hiding and moving out illegal merchandise, hawkers packing up their stalls in haste and children called home by fearful parents. But today was not the day of a crackdown, not of war between the noble's order and the outer city's chaos. Today was a day of returning, a day of acknowledgement. One rare day in which Soul Society remembered that the Rukongai existed, and how many of its soldiers hailed from its troubled streets.
The Beetle Horn Plaza was empty by the time the Reapers reached it. Still the waft of street food and sewage lingered, and one officer took a discarded ragdoll, delicately, and set it on a window sill for a child to find again later. Benches were set, an altar was raised, refuse was cleaned hastily by low-ranking soldiers as attendants came with flowers spilling out of their arms. After a while even the ominous black robes of the dreaded Shinigami could not stop curious children from coming back, lurking at the edge of the plaza, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. But they were not turned away. They were welcomed with smiles, and whispers of what and who was honored today.
The coffin came borne on the shoulders of the Eleventh Division's Captain and three of his officers, though he insisted he could have carried it himself. In truth only two of the officers really helped bear it aloft - the third was Ayasegawa Yumichika, who had one arm in a splint and many more wounds hidden by his uniform. He could barely lift his own arm high enough to hold the casket, but he had threatened anyone who offered to take his place with grievous harm.
They laid the coffin down open beneath the sky, and weeping-women came to scatter rose petals within it. Priests burned incense, chanting sutras. The body lay under a cover of flowers, his eyes closed peacefully, immaculate in his dress uniform. The coffin-bearers left; on Captain Kenpachi's shoulder, a tiny girl with pink hair smiled and waved at the body, as if to give a cheerful goodbye.
"He'd have hated this sappy shit," Kenpachi said with a contemptuous snort as he took his place among the attendance, refusing to sit on his bench.
"No," Yumichika said, smiling faintly at his side. "He'd have loved it. All this attention to him? Songs and chants and everyone taking a day off to acknowledge how great he was? He'd have bragged about it for a decade."
Kenpachi scoffed again - but did not disagree.
Flowers and banners framed the rows of benches, the first of which was rank reserved for Captains and direct relatives of the deceased - but Madarame Ikkaku was a Rukongai brat, and had no known relative. Instead, half the seated officers of the 11th Division had made it a point to claim special dispensation and be recognized as his relatives for the funeral. Each one in turn went to the coffin to deposit a small token of their respect. For some, who came from the inner districts or minor nobility, these were gifts of silver or steel, a ring, an engraved knife, a carved statuette, reminder of the honor and pride they had found together, in spite of coming from such distant horizons from each other. For others, who had been of the same origins as him, it was a small bottle of sake, a wrapped pastry, a child's twig doll. Reminders of what they had shared, and left behind.
The more it became clear that the Shinigami were not here to upend the locals' lives, the more curious they became. Adults followed the first children, who talked to them excitedly about what was going on. They disbelieved, at first, and feared the worst when Shinigami came to them. But the unseated members of the Eleventh, who had demanded guard duty during the ceremony, had no intention of drawing a line. Instead they laughed, clasped the frightened citizens on the shoulders, offered them drink and food, for only the cost of listening to them boast and brag about the man under whom they've served, the man who had come from this very district, the man who was now returned to it as a hero. Just like Captain Zaraki, he stood as proof that any of them could reach the utmost heights, no matter their extraction. And the men and women of the Brass Beetle District knew that this was a lie, or at least not a full truth, but the Shinigami so clearly believed that lie today that they, too, found themselves wanting to believe it. And so as the Shinigami on their benches sat and listened solemnly to the chants of priests, all around the plaza soldiers and civilians mingled, laughed, ate and drank together, and soon again there was the laughter of children.
Oh, but how the Gotei officials in charge of funerals had howled at this breach of protocol, to hold an officer's funeral outside the Seireitei - but the Eleventh had no care for the complaints of bureaucrats; it amused them. And to the Gotei's credit, the Captains had shown up just as if everything had gone according to protocol. They took place alongside Zaraki, and all the toughs of the Eleventh who had found a place in the first row made their best show of not caring about the increasing pressure of their presence.
Even some Captains who were not expected did come.
"Captain Hitsugaya," Unohana said, her tone firm with an edge of frustration, "I absolutely cannot allow you to-"
"You'll have to restrain me
physically," Hitsugaya said through clenched teeth, striding up the beaten-earth street. His face was covered in sweat, one sleeve of his uniform had had to be pinned close over his missing arm, and every breath rattled slightly with the strain of his wounded lungs and ribs - yet still he walked, eyes ahead, uncaring of the pain.
"If you do not go back to your bed and your recovery, I
will," Unohana said, her eyes taking on a dark cast. "You are my patient, one of our need I say it
dwindling number of Captains, and given recent reports we need you to back on your feet as quickly as possible. I will not allow you to-"
"Captain Unohana," said a friendly, smooth voice, and she paused, her glare ready to incinerate the offender on the spot - but then she saw two things: first was the face of Shunsui Kyoraku, smiling slightly, and second was the fact that for the first time in at least a century, she was seeing him in his Shinigami uniform without any of his fanciful, flower-patterned overcoats. This alone gave her pause.
"This is a hard time for the boy," Kyoraku said as Hitsugaya stopped a few yards from them, just far enough not to hear his whispers. "A man was lost under his command. An officer of another Division, entrusted in his care. As important as bedrest may be to his physical recovery, attending this funeral may matter just as much to his psychological recovery."
"You do not have to lecture me on the mental aspects of patient care," Unohana said sternly.
"No, I do not. But I think I might need to remind you to treat him as a Captain, not as a child."
She frowned.
"He doesn't have the lived experience to handle either of these things - his injuries, or the grief."
"You underestimate him."
Ahead of them, Hitsugaya seemed to decide they weren't going to try and stop him, and resumed walking, hastening his pace. Unohana sighed and followed him, Kyoraku at her side, until they reached the plaza. The Eleventh's guards' eyes widened at the sight of three Captains approaching together, and they stepped out of the way, bowing deeply, opening the path between the two rows of attendants towards the altar, the banners, the incense and the priests…
Hitsugaya paused in shock. He had never seen anything like it. The ceremony numbered dozens, if not hundreds of people, sprawling all over the plaza, the dignified ritual at its center, the unseated Shinigami laughing and singing at its edges.
"That is not a Third Seat's funeral," Hitsugaya said, more to himself than anyone else, but Unohana stepped at his side and explained:
"Kusajishi Yachiru of the Eleventh Division has temporarily stepped down from her position as Lieutenant, so that Madarame Ikkaku could be promoted posthumously and receive the full funeral befitting of such a rank. Yachiru will be reinstated into her position once the funeral is over. This would be a questionable action ordinarily, but given Ikkaku's deeds, the bending of protocol was unanimously well-received by the Captains."
"I'm surprised Kenpachi or Yachiru knew enough of the legalities of Soul Society to pull off such a scheme," Hitsugaya said.
"What Unohana means," Kyoraku said with a faint smile, "is that Kenpachi and his weird little girl listened to people telling them how a Third Seat's funeral was organized, then started grabbing and shaking people while shouting that this was disrespectful to his 'best man.' This lasted until Captain Unohana stepped forward and proposed this scheme. I'm not sure they understood half of it, but the arrangements for a Lieutenant's funeral seemed to satisfy them."
A faint smile drew itself on Hitsugaya's lips, a shadow of amusement. Yes. This sounded more like something they'd do. Especially little Yachiru herself shaking Shinigami twice her size by the shoulders.
Unohana sighed.
"You may attend the funeral," she said, her voice softer than before, "but I will put my foot down on any activity that comes afterwards. I know well the revelry to which soldiers abandon themselves after a funeral, and the Eleven are the worst of all at this. You will come back to the medical quarters. Understood?"
"Fine," Hitsugaya said, shrugging. He knew there was only so far you could push Unohana Retsu as one of her patients, and he had only gotten this far by being a Captain. More would be unwise.
And his wounds did ache, no matter how little he let it show.
The three Captains joined the front row, and gave their condolences to Kenpachi, who rolled his eyes at the sentimentality of it, and Yumichika, who welcomed them with a smile.
Others were coming.
"Isn't this a bit cliché, standing on the rooftop far away from the actual celebration?" Captain Ukitake said, his tone playful.
As a general rule, Captain Soi-Fon did not like "playful." The short woman turned to Ukitake and narrowed her eyes, giving her an overall look not unlike that of a cat poised to leap on an unsuspecting bird.
"I don't intend to stay here the whole time," she said. "But these idiots insisted on holding the funeral in the middle of a highly dangerous district, overrun by criminals, and the Eleven has allowed their men to mingle with the populace. This makes my job securing the area a lot harder."
Ukitake raised an eyebrow.
"Soi-Fon, there are several Captains in attendance. What are Rukongai criminals going to do against that?"
Getting upset at Ukitake was always a struggle - the man wore his perpetual sickness on his features, in his skinny build, his pallid complexion, his tired eyes, his long, prematurely grey-white hair. Combined with his kindly demeanor, it made him difficult not to instinctively treat him with compassion and sympathy, even though he was one of the oldest and most powerful Captains of Soul Society.
Fortunately, Soi-Fon was highly experienced in getting upset at people.
"Criminals are a notoriously unpredictable and stupid lot, prone to reckless decisions,' she said curtly. "These never end well, but can still cause damage. This is also not the only issue - I have heard troublesome reports from my Division's agents in the living world. Hollows on the move in numbers. Dimensional breaches, so soon after the last raid. Things are happening, and I can't take a day off for a ceremony."
The Captain of the Thirteenth sighed, and moved over to the edge of the roof. Even knowing to look for them, his senses could barely pick out the Stealth Squad agents scattered throughout the area - most of them disguised as civilians or Shinigami of another Division, rather than wearing their iconic all-black outfit.
"Come on," Ukitake said softly as Soi-Fon peered down at the assembly. "It's clearly not just these pragmatic concerns that have you so sour. Do you want to talk about it?"
Soi-Fon gave him a glare. In a rare nervous gesture of frustration, she lightly pushed the single, thin braid of black hair reaching to her back from her left shoulder to her right.
"I do my duty as is asked of me."
"Yes, but that doesn't mean you can't complain about it to a friendly ear."
For a moment, she seemed about to snap at him; then she finally relaxed.
"This is… Excessive. For a Third Seat."
Ukitake sighed. Now he could understand why she'd be so reluctant to talk about what was frustrating her; many others would have taken that simple sentence as a dire insult.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I understand that he was well-beloved of his Division, and respected by others. I understand that he died in the line of duty, fighting to defend his comrades who had already fallen, likely saving their lives. I appreciate this."
"But," Ukitake said with a thin smile.
"But he was only the first to die. There will be others. And his sacrifice is so honored because it was… Showy. No one has ever mourned for a Stealth Squad officer in such a way, called one a hero, even when they paid with their lives for even greater gains."
"Saving the lives of a Captain and a Lieutenant is no mean prize," Ukitake commented. When Soi-Fon looked at him again, there was something sharp in her eyes. An edge, and an hesitation to speak. "Come," he said softly. "You can tell me."
Soi-Fon licked her lips, thinking for a moment, then shrugged.
"We're all sitting there pretending that Madarame developed Bankai right there on the spot, in the heat of battle, out of sheer will to save his allies. And we all know it's a lie. Bankai doesn't work that way. He must have had it all along. And he concealed his power so that he wouldn't be removed from the Eleventh Division and forcibly promoted. Because he let pride, and personal loyalty to a Captain, and antiquated honor codes prevail over the good of the Gotei Thirteen. So instead of releasing his Bankai earlier in the battle and potentially saving his own life and ensuring lesser harm to his allies, he compromised everyone, and only used his full power at the last moment."
She paused, almost breathless. There was a staccato clarity to her tone, each word like a knife thrust, a rhythmic cadence that made everything she said sound cold and damning. It didn't make her any more likeable, but Ukitake knew not to read anything into it. It was just how she spoke, and nothing more.
"The way I see it, Madarame's sacrifice didn't shroud him in glory. It redeemed his fault. I don't hate him for his mistake. But I don't see any reason to make a hero out of him either."
"That is a fair assessment," Ukitake said, nodding. She looked at him with surprise.
"What, really?"
"It is fair. But it is also incomplete." He nodded his chin at the funeral below, where the chanting was over, and an old companion of Ikkaku rose to take place before the coffin and recount a tale of the man's early deeds, barely out of the Academy.
"What you are missing is that you were right the first time. This may only be the first companion we bury in this war. And if there are more, there will not be time for such ceremony again. When seated officers and Lieutenants and Captains die, and the war still goes on, we cannot afford such pomp and circumstance, such honor, such expenses. We all understand this. And so this scheme, making Ikkaku a posthumous Lieutenant, treated as a true hero, buried with all honors… It is not just for him. It is also for us. For all those of us who may die in the days to come, and never have the chance to be honored as we deserve. Ikkaku stands for the dead to come. For our memories of them. For the funerals we cannot attend. For the songs we cannot sing. For..."
He'd spoken too long, of course. His sick, old, tainted lungs decided to send him a reminder of his frailty. His last sentence was broken up by a terrible coughing fit, and Ukitake was too surprised to pull out his handkerchief. He only raised his fist to his mouth, and blood stained his hand as pain wracked his chest, his shoulders, his throat. Tears came to his eyes, which he wiped away with his other hand, and then finally he could pull out a bit of folded, embroidered cloth and wipe his hands with them.
Soi-Fon looked at him without concern or fear, waiting politely for him to be done. Another thing others might have taken for callousness, for lack of empathy. He smiled to himself. In truth she simply knew him enough to know that he had no need for such brief, empty compassion. He was sick, he had been sick for over a thousand years, and he would continue to be sick for a thousand more if some other cause did not claim his life before. The sickness was an inconvenience. Sometimes he coughed up blood, and what of it? Soi-Fon knew to simply wait until he was done, rather than rush to him and ask how she could help, when she could not.
He folded away the cloth, and took a deep breath. Soi-Fon stood up from her crouching posture, and gave him a nod.
"I understand," she said softly.
"Then let the Stealth Squad watch for foolish bandits and criminals disturbing our moment of reminiscence, and join me in attending the funeral?" he asked, smiling, careful to make the sentence sound like an offer, not an order.
Soi-Fon thought for a moment, then nodded again.
"Let's," she said, and they both hopped off the rooftop.
There were rhapsodies.
The men and women of the Eleventh were not known to be fond of artistic pursuit, but there was one they embraced as eagerly as they mocked all others: the song of deeds, the battle-hymn, the proud elegy. So they stood before the gathered crowd, and sang of Ikkaku's deeds: the slaying of the Hollow Whippoorwill, the stand at the Gates of Tarascon, the battle against the Drifters, and the first enemy casualty claimed in what would become known as the Winter War - Eduardo Leones, the volcanic giant. That last battle had only been witnessed by one man, his friend and battle-mate Yumichika, but Yumichika did not sing; he stood next to his Captain, watching and listening to others with a dream-like smile, lost in memories. And so it was Iba Testuzaemon, former Fourth Seat of the Eleventh Division, once comrade in battle of Ikkaku, who sang for him. And when he was done, Yumichika nodded, and wiped a tear from his eyes.
The last song, the death-song, that spoke of Ikkaku's last stand and final fate, would only be sung while his body burned.
When silence fell, the last echoes of the songs fading from the plaza and the incense burning its last dregs, one man stood, and the crowd caught its breath.
Older than Soul Society as it was understood, older than the very concept of Soul Reapers, the Captain-Commander of the Gotei Thirteen, Yamamoto Genryusai Shigegunki, stood from his bench, resting his old battle-scarred body on the tip of his staff, and brushed his long white beard.
"For two thousand years the Shinigami have stood against the twisted Hollows," he spoke in a deep, rumbling voice that had none of the feebleness of age. "Many good souls and brave warriors were lost to this fight over the ages. But today we face a new threat, one unlike anything we've ever met before - an army of Arrancars, grotesque parodies of ourselves, led by a Shinigami traitor. An army of monsters whose human shape hide the madness and evil of Hollows, whose swords mock our own. This stained, broken mirror held before us will test our resolve like never before. Lieutenant Madarame was the first Shinigami to fall against this army of aberrations; to commemorate the first of the fallen, and as a testament to his heroic deeds, he shall be granted a special honor. His body will not burn on a mere funeral pyre; it shall be cremated by mine own hand, and by the flames of Ryujin Jakka. If there is one among you who has one last thing to say before this is done, speak now."
Whispers spread through the crowd, surprise and reverence at this pronouncement, but they were all cut short when another Captain stepped forward, climbing the step to the coffin and turning to face the crowd. Zaraki Kenpachi's eyes scanned the crowd with almost unbearable intensity, but when he spoke up, he had none of the solemnity of those who had preceded him.
"Y'all know me. I never went to your Academy. I never learned your traditions. I became Captain by growing up the toughest motherfucker in the Rukongai, and came to the Seireitei looking for even tougher people, and I killed one of your Captains, and then I was Captain too. I spent the night after getting so shitfaced in celebration, I was too hangover to really catch anything of the old Captain's funeral. So yeah. I don't really get any of what's happening today. All I know is that it's the way Shinigami do things, the way the Eleven do things, and that Ikkaku would have loved it. And that's enough for me. Because Ikkaku? He was the
second toughest fucker in the Rukongai, and he deserves all of this. I'm proud he served under me."
Kenpachi paused, his mouth half-opened, as if forgetting what he was going to say next; he looked at the front row and Yachiru mouthed a word, and he grinned.
"Right. I'm told by my people in the Eleven that there's one more tradition they got, a tradition the rest of you guys don't have. That the Eleven are fighters one and all, fighters from the moment they pick up a sword to their last breath, and that when they leave this world, they should get one last fight, even if they're too dead to take part in it."
The giant of a man turned his back, the bells stuck to his spikes of black hair ringing clearly in the silence, and he reached into the coffin - then turned again, holding a sheathed sword. And with each of the words that followed Kenpachi's spiritual pressure intensified, a bone-rattling presence that kept the eyes wide and the breath trapped in one's throat.
"Ikakku died! The spirit of his sword died! A friend and a companion who fought by his side to the last moment! And his Bankai broke and dissolved, and all that's left of him is this sword - blank as the day Ikkaku picked it up from the raft. But it is
his sword! And if there is any one of you thinks they're strong enough, were enough of a friend to him, to deserve this sword to keep as a memento - step up! And all those who dare to do so will fight for the honor of the dead man's blade! Now who will step up?"
For a moment, there was no answer. Then Iba Tetsuzaemon took a deep breath and rose from his bench, striding without care through Kenpachi's aura.
"I will," he said, and turned to the crowd. "Will anyone challenge me?"
"Yes."
The surprise that followed that one word was of a different kind. Everyone knew, and respected, the fact that Yumichika had come to this funeral in spite of grievous injuries that left him barely able to walk. No one would mention it, for it would not be proper, even as his dedication to his friend's memory was admired.
But they did not expect him to step forward at Iba's challenge - not rising from his bench, for he had been standing for the entire ceremony, even though his legs now visibly shook and he had to walk up to the coffin with half-steps.
"Yumichika," Iba said, his voice a mix of sympathy and stern remontrance. "You're in no shape to hold a sword, let alone fight."
"Yet I must," Yumichika said, smiling weakly. "We stood by each other's side since long before we were Reapers. I must give him this."
"This is ceremony," Iba said, his voice dropping to a whisper as the crowd watched in concern - Unohana seeming even about to step up and bodily snatch Yumichika off the stage. "We all know you were his best friend. All that matters is that we give a good fight in his memory. Let someone else fight me instead; I'll give you his sword when all this is over."
"No." The Fifth Seat shook his head, red feathers bending in the wind. "That is not the way. I owe him this. I owe to my best friend that I claim his sword in duel, as a warrior, as a member of the Eleven. Give me this. Give
him this."
"Yumichika…" Iba began, about to protest, perhaps even to rescind his challenge and let the other claim the sword without a fight - when a lean, scarred hand with the strength of a mountain fell on his shoulder. Iba started, and looked up.
Kenpachi was grinning.
"As your former Captain, I'm telling you. Give the man what he asks for. They both deserve it."
Iba frowned behind his sunglasses, but his answer was a nod, and Kenpachi stepped off the stage. He turned to Yumichika, holding out his sword, unsure what to do, of how much strength to use in a battle against someone who was already barely standing - too little, and he would humiliate Yumichika; too much, and he risked killing him.
But Yumichika was not looking at him. He was smiling still, staring at his own Zanpakutou as he drew it, his reflection shimmering in the blade.
"He revealed his secret to save our lives," he said, so low only Iba could hear him, leaving him unsure whether the Fifth Seat was talking to him, to himself, or to Ikkaku's memory. "Risked eternal shame, if the others chose to blame our defeat on him for hiding his true power until the last moment. Instead they chose to call him a hero. It's only fair, that in his memory, I do as he did. I hope, if there is some part of his spirit that lingers still, that he will look upon me and smile - that he will not find shame in my actions, as we found none in his."
"What are you talking about..?" Iba said, and Yumichika closed his eyes, lifted his head to the sky, breathed in the incense and the flower fragrance and the street food and the puddles of dirty water and the old wood of the houses and everything that that was the Rukongai and Soul Society for one moment, in one place, together.
And he held his sword in his one good hand, as high as his shoulder would lift it, in his shaking grasp, and found that none of it mattered.
"Split and deviate, Ruri'iro Kujaku."
***
Night had fallen. Lanterns dotted the streets, shedding pools of ochre radiance, around which men gathered like moths. The sounds of their laughter and singing celebrated life, in the wake of a day spent commemorating death.
The smoke of the pyre still lingered on the air, filled with the soft fragrance of the flowers and grave goods it had consumed. Today men had beheld something many had not seen in their entire lives, the fires that could turn all of Creation to ash; it had consumed Ikkaku's body within moment, turning even the bones to ash in ways no mortal pyre could, but this was not meant to cut the ceremony short. The pillar of flame had towered in the sky until sunset, then gently faded. Most of the Shinigami had paid their last respect and left, though many of the Eleven's soldiers still lingered, finding entertainment and dalliances with the locals, spending in one night more money than most locals would see in a year, getting into fights with the District's gangs - in a word, honoring Ikkaku's memory as he would have wanted it.
When the pyre had gone out, Iba and Yumichika had slowly gathered the ashes in an urn. It would be buried here, in the District's overgrown graveyard, its funeral slab no more ornate than that of any of the local souls - though Yumichika would weave enchantments into it, that it might not be defaced or erode with time.
For now, they both drank to Ikkaku's memory, sitting on a rooftop above the pools of singing light. They had a clay jug of sake, and each time both of them took a sip, they poured one before the funeral urn.
"You know that after that little display," Iba said, incongruously still wearing his sunglasses at night, "you could make it as a Lieutenant in any other Division."
"Yes," Yumichika said with a smile, "but I don't want any other Division. I want the Eleven. I want to serve under Kenpachi. I want to fight as I would have if Ikkaku had still been there. This is my place."
"Some of the Eleven's people will resent you, you know," Iba said sadly. "Deride you for having a Kido sword."
"I know," Yumichika said.
"But most won't." Yumichika gave him a surprised look, and Iba shrugged. "You don't choose your Zanpakutou. From their point of view, you got stuck with a lame magic blade, inappropriate to a real fighter, and so you sealed its true power and fought the way they all aspire to. You made yourself one of them. Even when you risked death, you fought as a true follower of Kenpachi. They'll respect that."
"I hope you're right," Yumichika said with a longing look.
"Nah, I know I am." Iba took another sip of sake, and handed the jug to Yumichika. "Cause I still spend half my time around your Division's headquarters and if anyone sees it different, I'll beat them up until it gets through their thick skull."
Yumichika chuckled, and took another swirl of his own, before pouring one before the urn.
"That was a sneaky move, though," Iba said with a groan of discomfort.
"Hey, I released right in front of you. There was no deceit involved, no sneaking."
"I don't mean that." The older man took off his glasses, and Yumichika blinked; his eyes were slightly unfocused, beads of sweat on his eyebrows. Iba pinched his nose, sighing. "I've had half the sake it normally takes to get me going and I'm already wobbling. You took a lot of out of me - and now you're fresh-faced as a babe, more ready to throw down than you were
before the fight."
Yumichika smiled and said nothing.
"You know what this means, don't you," Iba said sternly.
"It means I'm combat-ready, tomorrow's hangover notwithstanding. It means no bed rest for me. It means I go right back to war. It means unlike Hitsugaya or Matsumoto, who get to lie in bed worrying about the whispers and rumors of something big happening very soon - I get to jump straight into it. And perhaps get a chance to avenge my brother."
Iba chuckled. "That was your goal all along, wasn't it?"
Yumichika took another long sip, and handed the jug back.
"You're a good man, Tetsuzaemon," he said simply.
"You are too, Yumichika. But neither of us is the
best man."
Yumichika smiled, and reached to his side.
He took the sword that had been his friend's, unsheathed it, and held its gleaming blade to the sky, moonlight gleam cascading off its perfect edge.
"Here's to you, Madarame Ikkaku. May you live on in our songs."
