Bleach 1. The Road to Shide

**~:Journey:~**

_This is dedicated to Kuchiki Byakuya, who, now he has made his reappearance in the manga, I feel I can actually write and post this with some confidence (knowing where the start and end points were tricky until I knew what Kubo had in mind xD). I originally thought about doing something like this when we were all debating whether we had seen the last of the Petal Prince, but even though he's (thankfully) back with us, I decided to go ahead and write it anyway. Albeit the ending is slightly different than how I thought it might have been first and foremost._

_This is a story about Byakuya between the fight with As Nodt and his regaining consciousness in Kirinji's spa. It is a spiritual journey, not a physical one, and it relies on a number of cultural and classical references, because Byakuya himself has close ties to Japanese classical literature (Senbonzakura is the name of a play, for example, but more on that later). Where poems appear, they are my translations, which are probably not as classy as published translations, but I didn't want to use anyone else's versions. The story also contains some suggestions as to elements in Byakuya's past that have never been explored in the manga. Part of the format of this story is also somewhat influenced by reading Mitch Albom's "The Five People You Meet In Heaven", for although it's NOT that story, I'm pretty sure anyone who's read it will see what I mean by that._

_As Nodt will probably never appear by name in this story, because I'm pretty sure Byakuya never knew his name. However, in Japanese lore there is a spiritual entity who operates in a similar manner to As Nodt's Fear abilitiy. For that reason, I have chosen to use the name of this entity - the Okubyougami - at times when referring to Byakuya's fight. As Nodt is obviously a Quincy, and therefore not culturally Japanese. But this story is founded entirely in Byakuya's awareness of things, therefore that seemed appropriate._

_Byakuya and As Nodt etc are all characters belonging to Kubo, and not to me._

* * *

**The Road To Shide**

The whole of the world had fallen into shadow.

In the recesses of what seemed like a long, black tunnel, he could still make out the faint silhouette of a wisplike wraith disintegrating into the gloom. His perception was fading and blurring at the edges now, and he realised with some regret that its skeletal leer would likely be the last thing he saw, imprinted on his memories as he slipped from this life into the next.

He no longer had any strength to hold onto his sword. His fingers had long since begun to turn numb, beginning with the tips and then spreading across the palm as his nerves ceased to send signals of pain to the brain. Pain was a survival reflex, he remembered dully. There was no need for it when you were dying, and so his body had already discarded it.

The flame haired boy's presence had already slipped from his thoughts, names and faces blurring together into one. It was only the skeletal phantom that still lingered at the corner of his thoughts, taunting him - or was it leading him forward?

Who was it, then, who guided shinigami on the path to the afterlife? Who called the Death Gods forward to answer for and atone for their sins and their inadequacies?

He could no longer see, nor could he feel, but he could still hear. There was a strange hiss of air passing over his wrecked form, but although he knew he was no longer holding his_ zanpakutou_, he did not hear the clang of metal hitting hard stone. As his consciousness was fragmenting, so he felt his sword's spirit shredding and breaking away, the malformed remains disintegrating into fragments small enough to be dust on the wind.  
_  
Chire, Senbonzakura._

His lips moved slightly, as if trying to form the words, but more from instinct than from a conscious attempt to make contact with his weapon. It could not answer him now, anyway. It had been ripped away from him and violated, as he had been, to a point where even if he had known how to speak to his weapon, he was not confident it would ever wish to hear his voice again.

Still, none of it mattered now.  
_  
Take nothing with you._

Well, it was not as though he had anything left to take anyway. His pride and his courage had been stripped from him, his dignity left shredded like the tattered remains of the_ haori_ that hung folornly over his bloodstained shoulders.

The tunnel was growing narrower, the darkness that he had already thought pitch black somehow growing heavier and more cloying with each passing second. Was he still breathing? It was hard to be sure, for he could no longer feel the muscles on his face, nor tell if his chest rose and fell in painful gasps of air. The spectral wraith was still ahead of him, turning to stare at him once more before, with another, horrific leer, she beckoned a bony finger, before disappearing into a haze of dust.

Even the proud name he had been born with now seemed nothing more than a cruel joke...a rotten tree no longer capable of putting forth blossoms. Fleeting scraps of memory too vague to grasp hold of disappeared one after another in the recesses of his mind.

_"Mumoregi no hana saku koto mo nakarishi ni_"

As the last one rose and fluttered out of view, he heard the voice of his grandfather, reciting the words of a poem which, with each syllable, grew fainter and fainter until he was left in silence.

_"Mi no naru hate zo kanashikarikeru"_

With the final syllable, he heard what sounded like the call of a cuckoo, and then, the world was gone.

* * *

**Author's Note: The Poem.**

"Like an old buried tree that cannot even bloom,  
The end of my life cloaked in grief."

~(credited to) Minamoto no Yorimasa (1106-1180)  
Recited in (Kakuichi-bon) Heike Monogatari, circa 1371  
(Chapter 4: Ujigawa Kassen)


	2. Flashback: Fated Child

**Flashback: Fated Child**

There was blood on every wall.

Ginrei stepped deeper into the heart of the mountain manor, feeling stifled by the cloaking sense of death that pervaded his surroundings. The building was eerily silent, but Ginrei's spiritual senses were not fooled, and despite his position and his long years of service he faltered, stopping to take a deep breath as a wave of giddiness assailed him.

A place which had once been full of laughter and joy had now become a mausoleum.

"Otousama..."

A weak voice from the hall behind him told Ginrei he was not alone, and he turned, seeing the haggard features of his only son, long dark hair windswept and straggling across his shoulders. His normally impeccable shinigami robes were dishevilled from the long ride through hills and valleys to the secluded retreat, his tabi thick with mud and grime from a hurried dismount. Despite his disarray, however, it was Soujun's expression that broke Ginrei's heart a second time. The blood staining the young man's finger tips and the edges of his tekkou gloves told the old man that he had been too late in ordering retainers to cover the savaged corpse of his daughter-in-law before his son arrived. Though he had been trained as a soldier, Soujun was a gentle man at heart, and the greyness of his complexion made Ginrei wonder if the young man was about to faint.

"We can do nothing here," now he spoke, his voice gruffer than usual as he clasped his son's arm reassuringly in his. "We should return to Sixth, and make preparations for a full investigation. My retainers have swept the premises already - there are many bodies, but no signs of survivors."

Soujun visibly flinched at this, but to Ginrei's surprise, there were no tears in the expressive grey eyes. Instead, his body became rigid, uncharacteristic obstinacy crossing his features. He shook his head.

"Hoshiko's vigil is my duty and obligation as a husband," he said softly, his words even, yet Ginrei was not fooled by his pretence of calm. "Besides, there is no sign yet of my son. If someone abducted him, then I must be here to answer to any ransom demand. Unless he...unless..."

He turned a sudden, terrified gaze towards Ginrei, and the Sixth Division Captain sighed, dropping his hands down on his son's shoulders.

"You didn't...find...Byakuya?" At length Soujun's question came, and Ginrei shook his head.

"There's no sign of him here," he said heavily. "We can only assume an abduction at this stage. But I have no intention of leaving you here alone, Soujun."

"I am the Vice Captain of the Sixth Division," Soujun's voice was trembling now, a shaking hand inching towards the sword at his waist. "If you don't trust me to be here alone, what use is there in promoting me? Because the family demanded it? My wife is dead, her household slaughtered, my son missing. In those circumstances...in those..."

His voice cracked, and he took a gulp of air into his lungs, sinking to his knees as the reality of the situation overwhelmed him.

"I am useless as a husband and a father," he murmured, tears now glittering on his lashes as his grief overwhelmed his attempts to remain strong. "I am unfit to be called your Vice Captain, if I cannot even defend my wife and child. I am sorry, Father. I did not mean to question your judgement. I am your only heir, and if Byakuya is dead..."

"We will find him," Ginrei said firmly. "Dead or alive, Soujun, I promise you that we will find your son...and we will bring him home. Hoshiko too."

"It's not good enough," Soujun whispered. "None of it is. I thought that of all places, here would be safe. I never imagined..."

"There are always enemies, even when we think we're living in a time of peace," Ginrei said grimly. "There are still pockets of resistance. Nothing has been completely settled or suppressed, even though officially we are all friends and comrades in arms. The Kuchiki are bold warriors, and well known for their prowess in battle. I suppose even in peacetime they consider this a reasonable kind of revenge...tasteless and cowardly as it is to attack a woman and child in this way."

Soujun did not reply, and Ginrei glanced at him sadly, realising that for all his grief and emotion, the young man huddled on the floor at his feet would not be capable of avenging his wife's murder. Soujun was a popular officer, but he lacked the ruthless instinct of his ancestors. Making him Vice Captain had been a reluctant decision, borne out of family expectation, though he had feared very much that his delicate son's gentle nature would be permanently scarred by the active service of a high ranking shinigami officer. Now, though, those scars had been inflicted in an unexpectedly tragic way - and Ginrei knew that Soujun would probably never recover from the sights he had seen this day.

No matter how much time passed, he would not.

Leaving his grieving son in the care of his own retinue, Ginrei headed further into the manor, pushing back the torn, dangling drapes to enter the parlour, where his daughter-in-law's mutilated body had been found. Her arms had been a mess of slashes and cuts, showing that she had tried in vain to defend herself against the onslaught of several sharpened blades. The work of secret forces, perhaps. Ginrei's brows twitched together at this. Had this been the work of rogue Quincy infiltrators, looking to strike a damaging blow to Seireitei morale in their ongoing struggle for supremacy, or had it been a rival closer to home? It would not do to return and launch accusations at his fellow Captains, let alone the wider members of his own family, and especially not without proof. But Soujun's devastated expression was still fresh in his mind, and he knew that there would have to be some kind of vengeance - somehow, somewhere - for what had happened here.

As he picked his way through the mess, Ginrei remembered with bitterness how it had been only a matter of weeks since the spiritual diviners had visited Soujun and Hoshiko's infant son to verify his level of spiritual power. It had been good news, heralded at the main house with pride and expectation, for the boy had been born with the highest spiritual potential the family had seen for some generations. It could surely not be coincidence that now, just a few weeks later, that child's home had been devastated, his nursery ransacked and his mother murdered. Hoshiko's wounds had proven that she had tried to fight, despite having never trained with any kind of weapon, and Ginrei felt certain that only a mother trying to protect her son could have continued to resist the attackers despite the shock and pain.

But where was Byakuya now? Though Ginrei had feared the child's murder when he had seen the nursery and received news of Hoshiko's death, the idea of abduction was infinitely worse. Byakuya was far too young to understand anything about his true roots or his future inheritance. In malicious hands, he could be raised and trained as a weapon, and the thought of this sent chills down Ginrei's spine. Inwardly he said a prayer that his gentle son would never be forced to face his own child in a battle of blades, for he felt certain that Soujun would never have the decisive strength needed to sever his own son's life.

If such a day came, the Kuchiki really would be doomed.

He stepped into the chamber further, past the place where blood still marked his daughter in law's last stand. She had loved the views from this room and had often spent time here, he remembered, when entertaining members of the clan. A Kuchiki as much as his son was, though from a more distant line, their match had been supported and blessed in most quarters – but had inspired resentment from others who had been passed over at the same time. Hoshiko had never let it bother her. While her husband was known for his gentleness and kind patience, Ginrei mused sadly, she herself had been renowned for her impulsive flights of passion and fancy, her forceful, protective instinct driving away most of the ill-intentioned visitors within a matter of moments. Soujun had lost his heart to her the moment they had met, and Ginrei had seen in her the potential strength and support his son may one day need in order to claim authority over the Kuchiki Clan. The haori that hung around his own shoulders was an indication of how quickly things could alter, but the birth of Byakuya two winters earlier had made things seem more certain and secure. The Kuchiki had taken heavy losses in the most recent skirmishes with the Quincy enemy. Were they now to be plunged back into more of the same?

Ginrei turned on his heel, preparing to leave the chamber, when something faint assailed his senses and he paused, freezing where he stood as he tried to work out what it was. In the dim-lit chamber, there was scarcely a sound beyond that of his own breathing, yet for a brief instant he had had the impression of company.

His eyes narrowed, fingers flicking to the hilt of his sword as he tensed in case of attack. Cautiously he spread out his senses, searching for any sign of enemy reiatsu, but there was none, and after a moment he relaxed his guard, frowning as he tried to discover the cause of the sensation. It had been unexpected, but not, somehow, threatening, and despite himself, he found his curiosity aroused.

The next moment, he heard the very softest of infant cries.

His eyes widened, heart clenching in his throat as he gazed wildly around him, hardly daring to hope that he had not imagined it and that somewhere, beyond his line of sight, his baby grandson was safe and sound. For an instant nothing moved, and then, just as he began to wonder if the grief of the day's events had taken its toll on him, he heard it again. Soft, true, and muffled by something…but the clear sound of an indignant baby's cry.

Now Ginrei threw caution to the wind, hurrying across the chamber, patting and listening at every crevasse as he struggled to locate the source of the sound. Though he couldn't sense the boy's reiatsu, or see him, he was sure that the child was there somewhere.

And then he saw it, the faintest of hairline cracks in one of the expensive, polished panels that his daughter in law had taken such pride in. Like a man possessed he clawed at the wood, pulling his weapon from his sheath as he slid the tip into the crack, not caring as the force split the expensive design across the middle with a searing crack. The wider the gap became, the louder the sound of the crying grew, and, buoyed now with hope, Ginrei pulled his sword back with some force, sending the remains of the panel careening across the chamber.

"Ginrei-sama, I've escorted Soujun-sama to the carriage, as you..." As he entered the chamber, Ginrei's chief retainer stopped dead at the sight of his master in such an uncharacteristic flurry, but Ginrei paid him no attention, tossing his sword aside as he pulled at the panels with his bare hands.

Finally, as the hole grew bigger, he caught sight of tiny fingers reaching out towards him, and with one final tug he pulled the entire wood screen free from its supports, dropping it to the ground and reaching trembling hands into the darkness. His fingers brushed against the traces of a strong kidou barrier, and tears touched his eyes as he realised his daughter in law's sacrifice. Instead of taking time to flee the house, he realised, she had used all of her spiritual power to conceal her baby – a last gesture from a mother who had truly loved her son.

"Ginrei-sama, what are you…" The houseservant's voice trailed off once more as Ginrei's fingers closed around the tiny, warm body of a living infant, shaking with the force of his tantrum yet unmistakeably, undoubtedly alive.

As he pulled his precious burden free from his hiding place, his servant's eyes widened.

"B…Byakuya-sama!"

Ginrei nodded, clutching the child tightly as he reached a trembling finger across to wipe the smears of dust, tears and blood from the child's face.

"She protected him," he murmured. "Wrapped him in kidou, so noone could find him."

"But how did you…"

"Hoshiko must have trusted that, if it was me, I'd find him, somehow," Ginrei said softly. "And I did."

He tightened his hold on the precious burden in his arms.

"I found him, Hoshiko," he echoed. "They didn't get him. Your son is safe."

Comforted by the old man's gentle tones, Byakuya's sobs quieted, and he raised huge grey eyes to his grandfather, staring at him in innocent confusion as though working out who the person was. Ginrei knew that they were barely strangers yet, but as he held the boy close to him, the small fingers reached out to grasp the hem of the white haori, and despite his grief, a smile touched the old man's lined features.

"You're all right now," he murmured. "No matter what, I'll make sure you stay that way."

He turned to his manservant, who still stood there, abject amazement on his face.

"Keirou, take this message back to the others and tell them to make preparations," he said slowly. "Tell my son that his child is safe, and I will be bringing him presently - do not let him leave the carriage, as I do not want to delay here any longer than I must. There is much now which needs to be done, and soon. I have decided that Byakuya will be coming back with me to the main house. More, there he will remain. For the immediate future, I will take personal responsibility for this child…for Soujun's sake and for the future of this Clan, nothing like this must ever be allowed to happen again. So long as I have breath, he will not be allowed far from my sight until he can defend himself in the way a Kuchiki should."

Keirou's eyes widened for a moment, then he bowed his head, hurrying off to do his master's bidding. Left alone with his tiny companion, Ginrei reached out a finger to touch Byakuya's brow once more. Where grief had crumpled Soujun, Byakuya's eyes were bright and alert, his attention captured by every glitter of light against Ginrei's greying hair, and as he eyed his grandson, Ginrei realised that, though the boy resembled his father, the spirit in his greyish eyes was that of his mother. Something about this fact gave him a sense of relief, and he touched the small brow gently.

"This family's burdens now weigh on you, my boy," he said quietly. "Soujun may never make an heir for this Clan, but so long as you are here, all will be well. Together we'll find a way for you to shoulder the pressure as you grow. I will make sure this can never happen again. Your mother's sacrifice will not be forgotten. Those responsible for this will be found and they will be punished. I will teach you myself the ways of a Kuchiki clan head. We will not submit to them. Their plans have failed, thanks to your mother's courage, and I will not waste that gesture. , now I am quite sure of it. One day you will be the great leader so many people have prophesied!"


	3. Honour and Pride

**Honour and Pride**

Beyond the world, there was light. From the abyss of nothing came a sudden explosion of everything, and Byakuya found himself frozen as, around him, pieces of a strange, yet somehow nostalgic scene began to drift and steady into place. Fragments of petals pulled together to form the walls of a garden grove, twisting and stretching into the branches of trees where, one by one, flowers began to bloom. The haze of dust above his head suddenly became the blue sky, faint wisps of cloud drifting across as though they had all the time in the world. The odd, hissing silence that the ominous syllables of the death poem had heralded was now broken up by the gentle melody of a distant _ryuuteki_ flute, its haunting minor strains playing a melody that, if he really dragged his sluggish memory into life, he knew that he had heard before.

Who had played it then? No, that memory would not come, but before he could trouble about it any further, the misty surrounds snapped suddenly into clear, coherent focus.

He was sitting on lush grass, the odd blossom breaking up the sea of green. What's more, the senses he had lost what seemed like a heartbeat before appeared to have been returned to him - though with a certain sense of surrealness, as though nothing he saw or felt was actually real.

Byakuya pressed his fingers against the soft emerald blades that surrounded his knees. The sight of the ghostly digits that spread out from the stained _tekkou_ unnerved him, for he could see the petals of a nearby daisy right through his knuckles. Holding up his hand to the light, he watched the rays of sun glitter through his fingers. Was he real then? Was he not? Was this death? As a boy he had studied many texts on the laws and theology of the career path he would ultimately follow, but he had never really thought of those concepts beyond the reality of taking a sword to fight.

Ginrei had often referred in jest to the world of shinigami as that of the warrior Asura demons, fighting and fighting with no other purpose but to blood their blade against the enemy. At the time, Byakuya had dismissed such concepts as the foolish teasing of an aging man, but now he wondered, had Ginrei been right? Had he been one such demon, and as such, was this world his reward or his punishment for living such a life?

It certainly didn't seem like a punishment, and yet Byakuya was still on edge. It was too peaceful, the flute music too haunting and soft, and it seemed very much like the calm before the storm. Had he not heard the call of the cuckoo before he had been swept into the abyss? Who had it been calling for, then, if not for him?

And then he realised that, where he had been alone, now, apparently from nowhere, someone else had entered the grove.

A young man now sat beneath the trailing branches of a blooming sakura tree. It had been him, Byakuya realised, who had been playing the soft flute melodies, for he could make out the old carved instrument between delicate fingers that fluttered up and down effortlessly to create such an ethereal sound. The flute too was familiar, but in that moment, Byakuya could not place why that should be. The newcomer was intent on his melody, apparently not even acknowledging Byakuya's presence. Byakuya felt both isolated and relieved by this apparent indifference. Had the other man really not been there from the start? The more he looked at his companion, the more Byakuya felt like this was _his_ world, and he himself had been the intruder.

It was a sad song, yet the more he listened to it Byakuya's shattered heart felt faintly comforted by its strains. Little by little, as each note crested and fell, he found his own memories beginning to pull back into focus. The sound drew him back to his childhood, when, as a small boy, he had matched sticks with his grandfather, and had heard the sound of a flute playing from his Father's quarters. He got slowly to his feet, apprehensive about approaching the stranger, but somehow wanting to know more. Warm nostalgia replaced the emptiness, and without thinking, he moved forward, eager to let the music warm his cold body like a moth to a flame. He was able to move more easily now, his fingers less transparent than they had been moments before, as though the music had the power of returning him to reality.

He bent so as to avoid the low hanging branches of the sakura tree, and at his approach, the man set down his flute, raising grey eyes to meet Byakuya's for the first time.

He was older than the Sixth Division Captain had first thought, his fair skin marred by crinkles at the corners of his eyes and at his lips, but there was not a single thread of grey in his dark hair. He was robed in the fine fabrics and colours of the Kuchiki, yet in a style Byakuya had not seen except in paintings in his Grandfather's collection of _emaki_. A delicate white scarf was wound around his shoulders, the folds of a white _kenseikan_ like snow against the ebony curls, and, as he got to his feet, Byakuya registered the hilt of a sword at his waist - a shinigami's weapon, despite the man's lack of black and white robes.

Byakuya's fingers moved automatically to his own waist, but the hilt of Senbonzakura was absent, and he faltered, his hand dropping away as he remembered once again the battle that had shattered not just its blade but its hilt and core as well. The enemy had not only robbed him of his dignity and his existence, but also half of his soul, and he felt naked and incomplete without the finely crafted weapon at his side.

"So you've come,"

The stranger spoke at this juncture, his words soft and melodic, but Byakuya could hear the slight note of censure in his words, and he bristled, instinctively on his guard. At his sudden tensing, the stranger arched a perfectly formed eyebrow, moving forward until they stood a mere foot apart, and running his gaze over his companion as though he was appraising every minute detail. Despite himself, Byakuya felt naked and exposed, for it was as though this stranger's piercing silver eyes could see right through to his core, and read every single one of his thoughts and emotions as though they were written in indellible ink across his face.

At length the stranger sighed, shaking his head as though disappointed with what he saw.

"Without your honour and without your pride, what are you?" he demanded and Byakuya flinched at the disparaging tone. Before, he knew, he would have reacted with indignant defiance, bringing forth his weapon to defend his name, but this time he found himself unable to even muster words. His sword was gone. His heart was gone. His honour. His pride. His everything. All that remained was this miserable, hollow shell...an empty futility he had not recognised in himself before, but now suddenly knew and loathed with every fibre of his being. Without his honour and his pride, what was he? The stranger's question dug deep, but he did not know how to respond to it. The battle he had fought had broken him and he knew it. It had sliced through his layers, cutting them into shreds piece by piece and then, turning his own weapon against him, making his soul shred itself into shrapnel smaller than Senbonzakura's haze of pink petals in full release.

He gazed at the stranger hopelessly, taking in the man's proud bearing and upright stance, and he knew that he had no response to give.

"What am I," he murmured the words, feeling hollow and empty once more, and the stranger pressed his lips together in a pensive frown.

"You can't answer me?" he pressed softly. "Have the Kuchiki fallen so far that its last living son cannot even meet my gaze?"

He reached out an elegantly gloved hand to touch the other man's shredded _haori,_ and Byakuya flinched back, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable under this stranger's piercing gaze. The other paused for a moment, then he shook his head in disappointment.

"If you can't answer me, there's nothing left to say," he said sadly. "I cannot allow you forward, if this is all you are."

"Allow me...forward?" Byakuya spoke the words numbly, and the stranger nodded, clasping his fingers around the hilt of the elegant sword at his waist and pulling it smoothly from its scabbard. At the sight of it, Byakuya let out a bitter laugh.

"You can't kill a man already dead. Whatever you do with that, I've already let go of life."

"So, you are running away?" The derision in the man's words cut through Byakuya more deeply than any weapon ever could, the clear sense of Kuchiki disdain that he had inflicted on so many people himself suddenly turned against him from the lips of another. The eyes were his own eyes, he realised with consternation. The form of his features moulded in the same fair skin, and, though his own hair was sleek and straight, it matched the shade of this older individual, wound beneath the folds of the _kenseiken_ in such a way that even though Byakuya had never seen him before, he felt deep in his gut that the person who now addressed him was no mirage or hallucination, but a Kuchiki as true as he was himself, with all the nobility and self-assurance that one battle in the rubble of Seireitei had smashed out of his own soul.

"You don't understand the first thing, yet, about living and dying," the man was unmoved by Byakuya's clear distress, extending his weapon between them until the silver tip was pointed directly towards where the Sixth Division Captain's heart usually beat.

"You are the Twenty Eighth Head of the Kuchiki Clan," the older individual continued, and now there was a dangerously low tone to his voice. "You wear the _kenseikan_, just as others did before you, yet you seem to understand nothing about what that means. I have seen descendants of mine fall through this place in a state of worse disarray, but their hearts and souls have been true to the Clan that gave them life. They are true descendants of mine, and I acknowledge them as such. I let them pass in peace, but you...I have no interest in allowing you to sully my family's honour in the afterlife if you cannot even answer the simplest of questions here in my grove."

"Then how do you propose to kill me, if I'm already dead?" Somehow Byakuya found the words to ask the question, and the other man's eyes narrowed to slits at this feeble attempt at defiance.

"So, your soul hasn't completely faded within you, yet?" he murmured. "In that case, Kuchiki Byakuya, tell me what it is you see."

At his words, the sword between them began to glow with an eerie silver light, the sections of blade separating and curling into petals that hovered in midair like a cloud of steel, glittering and glinting in the sun. Under the flourishing branches of the sakura, they appeared almost pink, and despite himself, Byakuya felt a swell of emotion rush up inside of him.

"Senbon...zakura..." he whispered, reaching out a finger to touch the nearest blade, but the stranger pulled the weapon back, reeling the fragments of silver back out of the other's reach.

"No," he said frankly, his words sharp enough to make Byakuya pause. "I can't give you your sword. This is not your ally, it is your enemy. One command from me and it will cut you down where you stand. You should not reach out to something you do not know. Your sword may share blood with mine, but it is not yours. Where your weapon is, I do not know. I cannot hear its voice. It belongs to you, and only to you...only you can find it."

"But..." Byakuya faltered, and the stranger lowered the weapon with a sigh, the broken segments of steel reforming into one composite blade.

"Still, you have proven to me that you still have a reason to live, and for that alone, I will give you one more chance," he said reluctantly. "You are pitiful and you shame the blood that runs through you, but you have not forgotten your sword's name, and therefore you still remember yourself. So I will ask you one more time to answer my question. What are you without your honour and your pride, Kuchiki Byakuya?"

He tapped the hilt of his sword pensively.

"My answer to it is here," he continued. "My pride, my honour as a Kuchiki, lived and died in the petals of that blade. From that resolve came future generations of strength and determination. From it came_ you_, Kuchiki Byakuya. Your blood is mine, and mine runs through your veins. You show yourself before me here in the robes of a shinigami, without your _zanpakutou_, but your connection to it is not completely dead. If you cannot answer my question, then at the very least, then, consider this. _Where_ is your honour, _where_ is your pride? If not in the blade that once hung at your waist, where are they? What right do you have to stand before me as a Kuchiki, if you cannot account for these things?"

He tilted the sword slightly, letting the weapon catch the light.

"If you cannot answer me, I will destroy you and you will not pass," he added, his words becoming dangerous, and Byakuya could sense a sudden swell in his reiatsu, spectral and intangible yet all too real. "I have that power, and that judgement. A child born of my blood can be ended by my blade, so tell me, Twenty Eighth Head of the Kuchiki? Where are your honour and your pride?"

Byakuya took a step back despite himself, fragmented images of the battle against the Okubyougami becoming more and more vivid in his mind. Had this stranger summoned them, or was it something else that drew them forth now, taunting him with his own inadequacy? Suddenly he knew that the spectral wraith that had taunted and beckoned him along this path had been a grotesque hallucination of Rukia's rotting corpse, a hallucination yet the formation of his absolute fear. Beyond that, the sound of his own voice, strident and proud, as he prepared to cut down one of his many combat partners.  
_**  
"I will kill you, because you threatened my pride."**_

The words, once his own, spoken without doubt or hesitation, rippled through him. He let out a gasp, clinging on to this memory and trying desperately to place it. An image of Rukia, bloody and pinned with Kidou, began to replace the image of the ghoulish skeleton, and for an instant he was in a high chamber, his leg and arm slashed and an enemy...an enemy who had accused him...

And then he knew. He had taught himself the answer to his question. He had just not learned to listen before - either to himself or to anyone else.

He gritted his teeth, breaking his thoughts free of the recollection, and reaching out his hands to push the other Kuchiki's blade aside.

"I can answer," he said softly, some of his old composure resurfacing in his voice. "I don't know your name, but I believe you are a Kuchiki, just as I am, and therefore the sight I present before you must be a shameful one. I confess, I lost my sword, and at present, I cannot find a way to reach it. I do not know by what means I came here, nor what my path is beyond this point, but I do know the answer to your question. You see me as pitiful and I cannot defend myself on that count. I am guilty. My honour and my pride, are, its true, no longer with me. I am a hollow shell, lacking the greater part of my soul, and I have nothing left to recommend myself to you or to your mercy. As a Head of the Kuchiki, perhaps I have failed. But my honour and my pride...even though I don't possess them, still they live. They are in Seireitei. I could not protect them, but I know they are there. Living, breathing, fighting...for the things they believe in. The things...I too believed in. Abarai Renji. Kuchiki Rukia. I have bequeathed those things to them...to carry forth in the way they see fit. They have strength I didn't have, and so as my father bestowed life on me, I bestowed the keystones of mine on them."

He swallowed hard, then,

"Abarai Renji is my honour," he added, "and Kuchiki Rukia...Rukia is my pride."

"I see," The Kuchiki lowered his weapon, a faint smile touching his lips, and Byakuya was surprised to see the grey eyes soften, the flare of _reiryoku_ around his body dulling. "As I entrusted my pride and honour to the future, so you have done the same. You are a pitiful shell, it is true. Your sword is lost, and your existence barely worthy to stand in this place before any Kuchiki, let alone before me. But I accept your answer, Kuchiki Byakuya. I understand your feelings, and I accept that, at the very least, these individuals and your belief in them remain real inside of you where so much else is lost."

He resheathed his sword.

"I shall let you pass," he added. "You are a descendent of my blood, and as such, I will acknowledge you. But the path beyond this may yet be a long one. How it turns out depends on you. I can help you no further. You must find out for yourself where your own future lies."

With that he was gone, his final words echoing on the soft breeze, and Byakuya was once more alone in the peaceful grove.

But no, all around him, the world was changing once again. The grass and sky which had seemed so vivid was fading like an old photograph losing pigmentation. Even the sensation of emerald blades brushing against his soiled _tabi _was becoming no more than a fleeting recollection.

So it had been _his_ world, after all.

Byakuya's lips thinned as he processed this. The music, the flute, all of it had been created by the enigmatic stranger who had held a sword so similar to his own and yet whose name he did not even know.

As the surroundings returned to empty darkness, only the sakura tree remained. It was a skeletal shadow of its former self, the leaves and petals having long since disintegrated into the ether, but it was at least a tangible landmark, and, as Byakuya walked closer to it, he realised that the grooves and lines on the trunk were not simply the wear of age and neglect but the intricate carving of characters, written in two long and antiquated columns against the wood.

Gently he touched his finger to the character for flower, and a faint, wistful smile touched his lips.

_yadori shite, haru no yamabe ni netaru yo wa  
yume no uchi ni mo hana zo chirikeru_

Beneath his touch, the tree began to glimmer with a light that grew brighter and brighter, until Byakuya was swallowed up entirely in its gleam.

* * *

_**Author's Notes: Cultural References**_

_**The realm of Asura: **__One of the six realms of Samsara - the realm of Warrior Demons. Buddhist Pure Land tradition holds that souls are reborn between these six planes on a constant cycle until they eventually manage to attain rebirth in the Pure Land, where they can reach enlightenment._

_**The call of the cuckoo:**__ In Japanese classic tradition, the cuckoo - or 'hototogisu' - is said to be a messenger from the world of the dead, summoning the souls of the living towards the afterlife._

**The poem:**

_Lodging a night in the mountains in spring  
I slept, and even in my dreams the flower petals scattered  
~Ki no Tsurayuki (872-945AD) recorded in Kokinshuu (#117)_

**The ancestor:**

_I am not naming him. People who know will know who he is, but his name is not really important so much as his role in Byakuya's "journey"._


	4. Flashback: Scattered Petals

**Flashback: Scattered Petals**

The scent of incense still pervaded every corner of the Kuchiki estate.

Byakuya fidgeted against the sombre dark fabric of his mourning clothes as he made his way slowly across the central courtyard to the small family temple. Although he was now in his teens, he had never really spent much time there, yet now something drew him towards it. As he got closer, he could hear the soft murmur of a monk chanting sutras, and Byakuya hesitated for a moment, allowing the rhythmic vocalisations to wash over him. Although he had learned Kidou incantations from an early age, and was capable of reciting most all of the most pertinent spells without stopping to draw breath or inspiration, the sound of the sutra was somewhat alien to his young ears.

Impatient and eager to get ahead, he had never stopped before simply to listen, but even now he did, he could not understand the words the monk was reciting. Perhaps that was the difference between mortality and enlightenment, he wondered vaguely, gathering his courage and mounting the three small steps that led into the temple's central conclave.

The monk, a shaven-headed man in middling years robed in heavy cloth as dark as that which Byakuya himself wore did not flinch or even react to the arrival of the youth, his gaze fixed almost sightlessly on something that lay just out of Byakuya's line of vision. The scent of incense was even more pungent now, and the air was hazy with the smoke, making the inner chamber of the temple appear unreal. Suddenly intimidated by this unfamiliar environment, Byakuya paused, his gaze flitting to the walls of the room in which he now stood. The monk's clothing was plain and unimpressive, but the surroundings in which he prayed were far from modest. This was Ginrei's temple, and thus it had been hung with what Ginrei had called his 'treasures' - images of the worlds before and beyond woven into life by threads in all the different colours Byakuya could ever imagine. Images of deities which Byakuya felt he ought to be able to name adorned the side panels, whilst ahead of him, beyond where the monk sat chanting, was a larger image. This one was a mixture of sacred figures and demonic beings, a tree of life and death depicting the different entities of existence that - according to his Grandfather - populated the worlds around this one.

A little below the middle, Byakuya's keen eyesight could make out the clashing figures of two distinct armies, one demon, one divine, surrounded by flames and death. Once, he remembered soberly, when he had been a small boy, Ginrei had brought him here. He had forgotten, but now, standing there, the memory came flooding back. He had wanted to know, then, about the pictures that adorned the aging cloth, and Ginrei, patiently and gently had explained each of the realms in great detail. Though he had listened attentively that day, Byakuya found that, at that moment, the only realm that he recalled with any great clarity was that belonging to the two armies, blades drawn and bows and arrows arched in an eternal war of supremacy.

"This is the realm of the Asura demons, Byakuya," as he stood there, tracing the fading artwork with his gaze, he could hear Ginrei's voice, its tone in odd harmony with the monk's hypnotic recitations. "The realm of warriors, in which one lives and dies by the weapon he holds."

"Why are they fighting, Grandpa?"

Byakuya's own question had been innocent, and at it, Ginrei had smiled. It had been a strange smile, Byakuya reflected now. Both amusement and sadness had been reflected in the older man's grey eyes, and for a moment he had not responded. Then, at length, he had sighed, patting Byakuya on the head.

"One day, you'll understand it for yourself," he had murmured softly. "This world is far from perfect, but we bear weapons and with them, we fight to protect the things that we value most. I don't know whether we are right or wrong. Looking at this, it's hard to tell the demons from the deities, and so it is here. We train to be shinigami, Byakuya, and one day, you will wear that uniform too. You will carry a sword and learn the skills that a guardian needs. But never forget, my boy, that just because we are 'death gods' doesn't make us automatically the divine. Sometimes death comes to claim those we love and then we fight for their honour and for our pride. But a battle for pride is no different from a demon's battle. Whether we are the Asura or the forces of righteousness they battle...I have lived this long and I still have no clear answer. Perhaps you will find a more satisfactory one...but with the amount of war and death these old eyes have seen, I can only conclude that whatever else this world is, it is closer to the realm of Asura than any other in existence."

Byakuya had not understood, then, but now, gazing up at the image afresh, he found that, for the first time, he could follow his Grandfather's logic. The shinigami fought to protect, and even if they failed, they still fought on. Where wars were fought, lives were lost...but others stepped into the gaps left by the fallen and then...and then...

He bit his lip, his fingers straying to the hilt of the weapon that hung at his waist. Despite himself, his fingers trembled for the first time, and he grasped the hilt quickly, anxious to suppress the sudden surge of doubt and emotion that had suddenly welled up in his heart.

The weapon did not speak to him, but something in its silence helped to quiet the brief flutter of distress, and he drew a deep breath, releasing his hold and putting his hands together, bowing his head slowly before the image.

As he stepped past the huddled form of the monk into the ante-chamber, he saw for the first time the stone bier, carved with the swans of the Kuchiki Clan. It was an old piece, and the feathers of the birds had become worn and chipped away at the edges, but the marble had been polished thoroughly nonetheless, and it gleamed faintly in the glow of the candles. Ahead was the temple altar, and from atop the highest plinth the serene features of the divine statue gazed down at the scene below. The figure's left hand was raised, his lead finger and thumb curled together as if to form a perfect circle around the air, whilst the fingers of his right hand were outstretched towards where Byakuya stood...or no, perhaps it was not to Byakuya himself that this hand had been extended.

The young shinigami swallowed the huge lump forming in his throat, turning his gaze reluctantly towards the object that lay directly below the Buddha's line of sight.

Atop the bier, dressed in the finest of silk white robes lay the silent figure of his father, sleek black locks drawn back from his face in a loose tail over his shoulder. His body was reposed comfortably, his eyes closed and his expression one of peace, but the chalky pallor of his skin reminded Byakuya that this was an eternal sleep from which Soujun would never again wait.

At the man's left side, brushing against the edge of his littlest finger, lay the carved flute that his father had cherished so much in life, whilst to his right lay the sheathed sword that he had carried into battle time and time again to uphold his duty to the Clan. That duty had also brought about his death, and although the robes Soujun wore were crisp and snow white, Byakuya knew that several layers of bandaging and cosmetic work beneath them had been needed to close the young man's battle wounds and make him such a presentable sight.

Byakuya drew a shaky breath into his lungs. The monk had paid no attention to his presence, maintaining the steady, sombre chanting that would help conduct his father's soul on the path beyond. Byakuya's eyes snapped up to meet the gaze of the statue, faint resentment in his grey gaze that the man's life had been taken so suddenly and so soon, but the statue's gaze remained serene, as though it knew more things than Byakuya himself could ever hope to understand.

Slowly he drew alongside the bier, resting his index finger tentatively on the end of the flute. He had never learned himself, though Soujun had often asked him, and now he regretted that he had prioritised his sword training with Ginrei over the more delicate arts his father favoured during his days off. Soujun had been gentle and elegant, slow to anger and quick to seek peace rather than make war. He had been ill designed for the job that fate had given him, despite his intelligence and his skill with people, and Byakuya felt sad that it had been on the battlefield that his father's life had been lost, not in the quiet of his chamber.

_Grandfather aged ten years when the news reached him, too. First Mother. Now Father. That only leaves...me._

Byakuya drew his hands away from the flute, clenching his fists together as he digested this.

_I'm the last one left. The hope for the Kuchiki...what Grandfather's told me so many times in the years we've been training. This is the battle that we're born into, the one we keep fighting until we die. Father wasn't designed to be a fighter, but he fought anyway, and because he wasn't strong enough, he died. Because he did, Grandfather lost someone else dear to him. And because of this...because of this...there is only me. But I'm not like Father. I'm not gentle or peaceful. I want..._

His eyes flitted to Soujun's face, realising how like the Buddha's serene expression his father's death mask appeared.

_Perhaps you have found Mother and so are satisfied. Maybe the purple clouds came and drew you off to Paradise. Maybe you understand the things that Grandfather doesn't know. I'll never be able to ask you anything again, but even though that's true, I think I understand anyway. I think...standing here, I realise what it is you would ask of me. If you could speak...if you could tell me...I think I know what you would say._

Where his father had fallen, he would rise to fill the gap. And that, no matter what he felt about it, there was no room for grief or misgiving. The Kuchiki Clan had been rocked by death once again, but in that death he had understood his destiny.  
_  
I will not be found wanting, Father._

Byakuya gazed down impassively on the face of his silent father, the tears that lurked in the depths of the grey eyes refusing to fall.

_I will uphold the honour of this family, for which you died, and I will not be lacking. I will inherit Grandfather's position as Head of this Clan one day and then, I will ensure that nobody, ever, has the opportunity to tarnish the family name again. I swear it to you here and now that I will uphold the Kuchiki name before all else._

His fingers brushed against the hilt of the weapon once more, then,  
_  
Even if it costs me my very life to do so._

* * *

_**Author's Note: Cultural References**__  
The statue in the temple is the Buddha Amitabha, known in Japan as __Amida__. He is the principal Buddha for Pure Land (Japanese: Joudou) Buddhism. I've followed this path with the Kuchiki here because of Byakuya's ties to Yoshitsune. Although there is as far as I know nothing historically reliable to prove that Yoshitsune was or wasn't a follower of Pure Land Buddhism, his first literary appearance is in Heike Monogatari, the most widely circulated version of which is strongly founded in Pure Land tradition. Therefore it seemed an appropriate inclusion. I'm sure you can probably guess who his Second Person will be, next chapter…_


End file.
