He sighs as he wakes from his meditation. She looks over questioningly, but he just shakes his head. Not today.

She hums quietly in disappointment but sends him a small, encouraging smile. Tomorrow, then.

He can't help but smile back. Yes. Perhaps tomorrow.

Perhaps tomorrow he will learn the name of his other half, his zanpakuto. Then he'll run over to her and swing her around, then thank her for the support she never failed to show and she'll laugh and dance with him - though neither of them are good dancers - just to celebrate.

Then the alarm sounds and they run to their battle stations and prepare their swords. He looks over at her and they give each other solemn nods, though she knows he is excited and he knows she is not. She has always disliked battle, told him to find another way, tried to avoid it. He doesn't understand why she doesn't feel the rush of adrenaline pumping through her body, why she doesn't smile victoriously when she wins, why she would rather speak calming words in the face of an insult than draw her sword in her own defense.

That night, as he dances with his enemy and laughs in the face of danger, he is drawn farther and farther from her. That night, he sees her give ground and cry out to him for help that he couldn't provide. That night, he watches as she falls to her knees in front of a bird-like monster, blood pouring from her body.

He finally understands why she thinks battle is dirty and repulsive, so he swears he will always find another way if she survives.

When she lays dying in his arms, he says, "I'm sorry" and when she dies, the only thing he can feel is despair. At that moment he knows that he will never be forgiven. Battle is ugly and gritty and bloody. It is nothing to laugh at, it is nothing to be excited about, it is nothing to take lightly or anticipate.

The next day, he hears a quiet, despairing voice tell him, "My name is Wabisuke." He can't think of a name more fitting. My sword's name, Wabisuke, means "Apologizing One."

He can't even find it in himself to be excited. He can't tell her, or spin her around, or hear her laugh as he tries - and fails - to dance.

When he is recruited for Third Division, he looks up at the emblem on the wall and thinks that he is right where she would've wanted him to be. Squad Three's symbol is the marigold. It is a symbol of despair. It is the very crux of my fighting style.

When he fights against Redder, he remembers the monster that killed her. He can't help the words that tumble across his lips, but he means them from the bottom of his heart. Battle is not a stage for empty heroics and nor is it something to take pleasure in. Battle is filled with despair. Dark, terrifying, gritty. That is the way that it should be. That way, people learn to fear battle and to choose the path of non-violence whenever possible.

Farewell, warrior of the sky. Promise me you'll never forgive me…

…just like she never forgave me.