Still

A/N: Set in the Consequences universe. A bit of an AU for the part that involves the reigai arc. Hitsugaya employs a great deal of misdirection. About determination, at various points of Hitsugaya's life.

The room is silent, darkened. No light slips in through the drawn wooden blinds.

In the heart of the silence, there is an impenetrable stillness. In the heart of the stillness, he breathes and waits. Perfectly balanced. Ready.

He is beyond the drills, hours of kneeling, turning, drawing, slashing, exactly as the instructor calls out the cadence. He is beyond the hours of sparring in the dojo, the steady clack of wooden blade against wooden blade. It is impatience which drives him, and a certain intuitive grasp of his limits. His instincts tell him he can go further still, if he pushes himself.

It is this almost-arrogant knowledge of his own ability, this insistent need to push himself harder than the others of his year that sets him apart. It drives the rumours, the whispers of genius. This is genius, that burns with a steady, cold, clear fire. It will not be denied.

Scrape of straw sandal against wooden floor of the salle.

He waits, senses all stretched to their utmost in the darkness. Eyes with the translucent-green quality of a winter pond are wide open, though they see nothing. His ears hear nothing, but the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Inhale. Pause. Half-exhale. Pause. Full exhale.

He breathes; the faint smell of sandalwood, nothing he can detect. No faint traces of reiatsu, when he can normally feel the spiritual pressure of students long gone in the room, faint and scrubbed-over like vestiges of a dream long forgotten.

Wait.

He does not know if it comes from his own mind, or if the sword in his hand is the one that whispers the instruction. Or perhaps it comes from the darkness around him. Perfectly relaxed, sword held at combat ready, he waits. Muscles yearn to tense, in anticipation. In fear of the dark.

Aren't you too old to be afraid of the dark, boy?

This time, it is the darkness that whispers these words. He relaxes his two-handed grip on the sword held out at an angle before him. Too tight, and the wrists will lock, slowing the speed of his parry. He knows all of this. Shoulders relaxed, for the same reason. Knees slightly bent, ready to spring. You must anticipate nothing. Expect everything. Back perfectly straight.

Yes, good, the instructor says in his head. Pay attention, boy!

The oldest instinct screams primal fear of the dark. The boy's fear. Are you a little boy? He resists the urge to grind his teeth together. Perfection. He must be perfect, and when the need wells up in him, it drowns out the small voice screaming in fear of what awaits him in the un-light, that wants him to make the fatal mistake of tensing his body in expectation. It will hamper his ability to move, smooth and unhindered. He knows better than to make that mistake.

Eyes do not see the passage of the blade. Ears do not hear the whisper as it hisses through the air. He does not sense a flare of reiatsu, the moment when placidity gives way to what they properly name reiatsu or a combination of will-determination-and-intent-to-kill.

Perfectly relaxed, perfectly unaware, perfectly in the moment, the youth's body moves for him, just as he has been trained, just as he is training himself to. The soft scrape of straw-sandalled feet against the floor as he shifts fluidly into a block, feet planted apart, body slanted, blade reversed at at angle to block the blow he knows and does not know is coming.

Reiatsu shifts, gathers in that instant; he moves from pure stillness to utter motion in a continuous, flowing movement.

Clang!

The blades meet; wills meet. Sparks fly, but it is not the test of wills at stake here. Not today. Not now. Flow into the space, the not-boy thinks, and as the blade withdraws, he presses the attack. He is motion. He is water, fluid, unstoppable. He flows into the space left by the container of the attack; the sword dances in his hand, to his will, light, effortless and unstoppable. Beautiful, like light on winter-ice. Deadly.

He glides across half the room in his attack. Steel chimes on steel with a sharp bell-note. The blades catch and lock, and frost-green eyes stare into bright scarlet.

You're getting better, the dragon allows.

Toshiro says, "I am." He disengages and comes at his opponent with a reversal and launches into the fourth training kata with little loss of momentum. Momentum, he remembers. A fight is all about controlling it. All about remembering everything and nothing. Anticipation. Being everywhere. Being nowhere. All about being here in this space; more here, more alive than he's ever been. Living-in-the-moment.

Teeth lock in a fierce smile as he beats aside the counter-stroke in a shower of sparks and a flare of blue-white reiatsu. Control the fight. Dominate.

They lock again, and this time the dragon is unyielding. It isn't about fierceness, the dragon snarls back. Not about proving you're brave, boy.

"I know," Toshiro growls back, the muscles in his arm shuddering. A shoving match was a mistake, but he is committed now. He must move without doubt. Action without thought. Seamless will. Doubt will weaken his reiatsu, his killing intent. His resolve.

Glowing scarlet eyes lock with his.

Will is what counts in the end, the dragon challenges, the sword steady. Have you got it, boy?

Deep, even breaths. Shallow and soft. The Huge Hollow will hear him, if he is loud. He is not ready. He cannot be ready.

He must be ready.

Fingers close around the blue-wrapped hilt of Hyourinmaru. He has his blade. He doesn't know where his Captain is. Kyoraku would kill an adjuchas with no difficulty. Hitsugaya isn't sure if he can even dream of adding that to his kill count.

Shut up, stupid.

It doesn't matter. There's no way he's getting a message across to Soul Society, not while he's limping (the Hollow is a panther-like animal which clawed him up badly before he threw a point-blank Sokatsui that blinded it and gave him breathing room.)

Blood trickles down the gouges on his leg. Hitsugaya doesn't know if the leg will continue to bear his weight.

Sound of a distant, angry hiss; the Hollow is furious.

For one moment, he is the boy again, holding the blade of his new zanpakutou, training against half of his soul. Training, learning, pushing himself to the limit. He is the boy, hiding in the darkness of the salle/in the shadow of abandoned buildings about to be torn down. He is afraid of what the night brings.

(It isn't about fierceness, the dragon snarls back. Not about proving you're brave, boy.)

Another angry yowl, closer this time. The Hollow is on the prowl. It will find him. Hitsugaya knows that by now, a gut-deep certainty accompanied by an acute awareness of his own mortality. His heart is pounding. Discipline alone makes him take calm, even breaths. The night wind blows, drying the cold sheen of sweat that soaks the collar of his shihakusho. He breathes again, feeling the gut-clenching fear. He has graduated. He is a lieutenant.

He will work past the fear.

He breathes; feels the fear loosen its white-knuckled grip on his stomach. His mind slips into a state of disconnected clarity, the way it always does when he fights. Outside, he may rage and shout and yell but within he is focused, and calm as a winter's night.

He tests his right leg. He's favouring his left side. Clinical assessment: he doesn't know for sure. It could give on him anytime. Blood flows from the gashes, and if he had bandages, or the time, he'd bind the leg. As it is, the only thing keeping him lightly on his feet is the tightly-clenched will. The will to live. The will to fight.

The will to survive.

Duty.

This one is inordinately fast. Avoid the claws. The fangs are sharp, and will slow him if they meet flesh. Already, he has burned the poison out of his veins once before. He has not the strength to fight it off another time while trying not to die.

A Hollow this powerful could fight on even footing with a shinigami lieutenant. That he hasn't called forth his shikai is blind pride, if not sheer stupidity. There is a hint of caution, as well. He has never tried wielding his shikai under the influence of a power limiter. Hitsugaya feels his lips peel back from his teeth as he sees the shadow at the entrance of the alley. The wall is to his back. All to the good. There will be no retreat. No flanking.

One of them will fall.

The Hollow snarls. It has sensed his presence, as his will builds and he deliberately relaxes his spiritual pressure. Not the most original come-and-get-me-if-you-can. But successful. His knees threaten to tremble. He locks them, shifts back into ready stance, sword held out at an angle before him.

He is the boy.

He is the wounded lieutenant, shivering at the back of the alley, frightened to pieces, but standing his ground. The armband bearing the badge and insignia of the Eighth Division feels like it is burning into his left arm.

The Hollow takes one step forward.

(Will is what counts in the end, the dragon challenges, the sword steady. Have you got it, boy?)

One clean strike. One kill. He has seen how he will do it in his mind, felt the sword shudder in his hands as he brings it smoothly through mask-and-flesh. The power limiter burns his flesh, icy cool. It is a detail that does not enter the calculation. The death of the Hollow becomes knowledge; that it is situated a few steps forward, and a little later in time is a minor abstraction. Will, keen focus, awareness: they crystallise to form a neat little lens through which the duel is already decided.

One step forward. Muscles tense and flex. The Hollow leaps for him. As the Hollow is moving, Hitsugaya shifts, taking the weight off his right leg, leaning to his left. He is slipping down, into a ready crouch to meet the charge, blade held outwards, like a spear.

His reiatsu swirls around him, cold and heavy and ready as he gathers his clenched will, the coalesced desire to win, to walk away from this. Duty. And so much more. Obaa-san. Hinamori.

He narrows his eyes. "Souten ni zase," he hisses, "Hyourinmaru!"

He has never done this before, not under all these sets of conditions. But Hitsugaya has moved beyond doubt, into the realm where his mind has already laid out every single move they are going to make and has begun to counter them, to shift towards the position in space and time when his sword will meet the Hollow's mask and the death that awaits.

The blade extends slightly; he is already moving, sword pulled back, ready to strike. The chain clinks. He would strike with it, but it needs more mobility that Hitsugaya doesn't have right now. The brief flick of the sword, canted forward. He is still bursting with reiatsu, and it bursts outward, narrow and focused, the great water-dragon unfurling outwards from the blade to slam into the Hollow with a roar and a crunch of icicle fangs. The water freezes where it touches the ground; layers of frost over the Hollow, and icy shackles that reach and grab for powerful legs. It won't hold the Hollow for long. Hitsugaya doesn't need that time.

One strike. He leaps, sword rising. His right leg threatens to crumble, he staggers, but compensates by reversing the direction of the strike. A clean horizontal cut, sweeping outwards. Ice bursts from his blade as he scythes it through the air, spears of ice slamming to impale the stricken Hollow, which roars again and again in agony.

It is over.

He lands, and falls to one knee as his right leg gives. He glances down at it. Blood streams where the claws have rent his leg to ribbons. He hasn't even noticed that the Hollow has struck him again until now.

He presses himself to his feet, bracing himself against Hyourinmaru's length. Cold chain clinks softly against concrete. He adjusts his grip and eyes the foe. Time for the killing blow. The Hollow is bleeding freely, trapped, and trying to break free, but the ice is the stronger and it cannot get purchase.

He cannot lose that much blood, and still walk. He forces himself to his feet anyway because it must end. It is stubborn will alone that keeps his reiatsu strong, that keeps his feet in motion despite the wounds he has suffered.

He draws level with the Hollow, and with that single, clean, envisioned stroke, ends its life.

This is Hitsugaya Toshiro right now.

He cannot trust his senses.

He doesn't know if the harsh, heavy breaths he is taking are bringing air into his lungs. He doesn't know if it is Aizen he is facing; if any of his strikes will land where he has intended them to go, or if Aizen has so thoroughly misdirected him that he will rain ice and hail down on his own comrades.

No one has quite voiced the unasked question: how do you fight an enemy who can turn your very senses against you? How do you fight an enemy you can't detect?

Hyourinmaru is in his hand; he can trust that, the reassuring feel of his blade in his hand, the surge of connection between the dragon and himself. The blade that moves like an extension of his hand, the training. He can trust all that.

The plan. He can—must—trust in the plan.

Aizen must make a mistake, Kyoraku says, privately. He says that with a marked lack of the jokes or the laidback comments he has mastered.

We'll have to force him to make one, Hitsugaya comments. He knows; with the familiarity that comes from fighting together as Captain and Lieutenant, exactly what the man has in mind. Kyoraku shoots him a sly look and nudges the empty wine cup. Hitsugaya ignores the empty table in front of him.

Put pressure on Aizen. That is the plan. That's the best they've all come up with. The more they press Aizen, the more they force him to deal with unknowns and the variables of battle without much time to consider his options. He can't afford a single mistake. They can. Still, Hitsugaya knows it isn't the best of options. A mistake for one of them could still be fatal to one of them.

But this is their duty. He knows duty, the way it rests like a familiar burden on his shoulders. Sometimes, he'd like to wake up without the haori. Sometimes.

They've done all sorts of things in the name of duty. He's done his own share.

If your plan is good, there is no reason to abandon it. They're not going to get a chance to rush Aizen, not all of them. They're scattered, battling the Espada, and now Hitsugaya is fighting furiously for his life.

In your weakness is your strength. He's learned that from watching Kyoraku, watching the way the careless and lazy Captain hides one of the keenest minds in Soul Society, and a man who does his own fair share of watching. And Hitsugaya knows. That's his job, as Captain of the Tenth Division. He watches people. Particularly fellow Captains.

Pretending is something they've all learned how to do. Fighting isn't just about blades. It's about wills. Minds. Misdirection. Feints.

"My blade is full of hate!" he shouts. Outside, he is the storm.

Inside, he is the eye of the storm. Calm. Assessing. Weighing. He is young. Let Aizen and the others think him reckless. Let them think him brash, and yet untested. Half of the battle is about misdirection, about feints and deception. About reading people, and weighing them. His task is to let Aizen think he's won. To lull Aizen into arrogance. Not that it seems particularly difficult. Aizen's hubris has always been his weakness.

If that is dangerous, then it is his duty. It is what he has been stepping towards since the day he left because his untrained reiatsu was killing his grandmother. Feints within feints within feints. Be the untrained boy he isn't. Be rash. Take chances. Everything he has learned, he must discard.

The path he must now walk is the risky one, untempered by the caution that responsibility and experience has impressed on him. Give openings. And watch, wait for the opening that must come only once and that must be exploited when it happens.

Outside, he is the storm, and then he gives himself over to the battle. Hold Aizen's attention. Put pressure on him. If Aizen's power is that none of them can know for certain that which is true, then the only thing they can do is to charge.

He doesn't need to glance over at Kyoraku to know the man is there, going to emerge from the patch of shadow. Their only hope is to take Aizen together.

He snarls, throws himself forward in a gliding sweep and then the battle begins.

This is how it feels to be Hitsugaya Toushirou right now.

Two of Hinamori advance upon him. Two swords drip with his blood. I am sorry, Hinamori-on-the-left says. I am sorry, Hinamori-on-the-right says. Something is burning, the sickly smell of charred flesh, all slow and distant to the pounding of his heart in his ears and the harsh, steady scraping of his breathing.

Yare, yare, Hitsugaya-kun, Kyoraku says. You haven't even drawn your sword yet.

Hyourinmaru is a heavy bar of steel against his back, pinning him to the ground. If he so much as lays his hand on the hilt of his zanpakutou, the blade will crush him. He remembers swift cuts, Hyourinmaru dancing in his hand, light and effortless, his only barrier against a cold steel rain.

Two of Hinamori advance upon him. Two swords drip with his blood. Everywhere, he are aching, broken, thrown through too many concrete walls and slammed into too many floors. His haori is sodden and warm with his blood and he can taste it on the tip of his tongue, flooding his mouth between his teeth. It'll take more than what they're doing to kill him. But there's plenty of time to die.

He glances up, into alien blue eyes, crackling with sapphirine energy. Not Hinamori, he thinks, for all the difference that makes. He'll be damned if he's going to go all-out on the two of them. Half-stunned, he lies sprawled against the tiles, helpless before the killing stroke. It's in the face. It's in the words. He cannot fight them. And it doesn't matter. If he expends himself on them now, he will have no strength to face Inaba.

He cannot sense the distant flares of reiatsu now, the smooth silk-steel of Kuchiki Byakuya's reiatsu, or the jagged-edge knives of Zaraki Kenpachi. No sign of Komamura. Hitsugaya does not expect the last.

Inside him, the dragon is silent. The dragon is patient. The dragon knows he will not draw his blade, not in anger. Not against his friend, his foster-sister.

This is not weakness.

This is strength.

The will of a shinigami is their most dangerous, most formidable weapon. It is will which turns reiatsu to steel, which deflects the cut of zanpakutou blades, which allows swords to cleave through flesh and into bone. It is will which keeps a shinigami on his feet and fighting despite the most grievous of wounds.

And it is will, Hitsugaya knows, that is also defined by its absence. If there is nothing that he has gathered his resolve not to do, then he knows nothing of resolution. Nothing of will. A man who will do anything is not a man who knows the diamond-hard flame of shinigami will. If everything is met by the same will, then there is no discrimination. No greater sense of striving, no inability to accept failure. No indomitability. This is will: a resolve, a steely determination to do—or not to do—no matter the cost. It is will which sustains him now, as he stays where the reigai's blasts have smashed him into the tiling of the ground.

To will not to do something is to value something. To value something is to be willing to give up anything for it.

Hitsugaya cradles that resolve now, feels it burning through him, steadily. He is too weary to do anything more than to raise his head, to watch them approach. He spits out a mouth of blood from between his teeth.

I'm sorry. This is Kageroza's strategy. We're weaker than you, Shiro-chan. He said that if we made you drop your guard…then we could defeat you. Because you could never attack us, Shiro-chan.

It is not a weakness.

It is a strength.

He tries to lever himself to his feet, and flops back down. So tired. Everywhere aches, where Tobiume has been driven through him, where he bleeds. The smell of charred flesh is everywhere, and blood drips from Tobiume's prongs.

"So," he forces out, "You're both reigai? That's good."

I don't want to get the real Hinamori involved in this mess.

He considers. Two of them. He remembers the fight with Ichimaru Gin. It seems like centuries ago. And perhaps it was.

There is what he will not do. He's hurt her enough.

And there is his duty as a Captain of the Gotei 13, driving him ever onward, to deal with Inaba. He could have ended the conflict if it was one of them. Now there are two of them and he is weaker, but he must do so, all the same. Hyourinmaru flashes from the dissipated sheath. The pain slips away, distant but still there. He rises to his feet, slow and ponderous.

Tobiume is still pointed at him, both of them. He knows the prongs will catch his blade, trapping him so the reigai can blast him with a kido spell or with Tobiume's strikes. But now there is uncertainty in their eyes as he lurches forward and then dips into a ready stance, Hyourinmaru held out before him. They cannot have failed to notice he has not released the blade.

There are some things he will not do. If that is pride, then so be it. But a man must have something to be proud of, and this is his pride.

"Shiro-chan?" One of the reigai asks. Her eyes water. She looks uncertain.

Damn you, Hitsugaya thinks. He does not lower the blade. He knows what he must do.

The first strike comes in. He lets her catch his blade, allows his reiatsu to rise again, sharp with intent and determination and resolve. Ice creeps forward, along the ground. It will be treacherous and it is already slick with his blood, on these uneven tiles. A flash of reiatsu cauterises the blood still seeping from his wounds.

She twists, all but wrenching Hyourinmaru from his hands as the second one tries a shakkahou at close range. Hitsugaya lets her disarm him, blocks the shakkahou with another low level kido spell. At the same time, he is moving, as the first reigai's eyes follow the direction of his sword.

She's forgotten, he thinks with grim humour. He's moved to stop her before. He can't hesitate. Not now.

Are you here to hurt me again, Shiro-chan?

The elbow strike catches her on the jaw, sends her reeling backwards to slam into the ground and he turns and takes a byakurai, almost to the calf. It singes him, and he drops low, feigning (for a feint, this has a startling amount of truth to it) weakness. She drives forward and his leg catches hers and he dumps her on the ground in a swift leg sweep that has the wounds in his torso screaming.

There are all things they won't do. Kuchiki Byakuya, for instance, will never outwardly break any of the rules of Soul Society, particularly the various ones that govern over nobles. He will never break a promise either, or a sworn word. Kyoraku Shunsui will never stop drinking, or flirting. He will never stop going easy on female opponents. Ukitake will never stop giving him candy. Yamamoto-soutaicho will never break his own rules and regulations, will never stop holding them all to the high standard of tradition within the Gotei 13.

They are not weaknesses.

Hinamori is almost-family. It's never stopped him before. A feint within a feint within a feint, that most opponents don't ever see through. It's not stopped him from drawing on her when he's had to stop her from fighting. It's not stopped him from battling her when she was ready to kill him. He smiles, more a wince of pain as he knocks out the second reigai and binds them both with kido. He picks up Hyourinmaru, sheathes the sword.

He will not kill them. Let Inaba make of that what he will. He will not kill them. It is not in him to do such things.

He feels the satisfied, tight hum of reiatsu against his skin, as the dragon stirs within the recesses of his soul, growling agreement.

Time to find Inaba, and quickly. If they want to reclaim Soul Society, they must cut off the snake at the head.

Hitsugaya rather think he's had enough of being thrown through walls for the month as he smashes through yet another one in a welter of pain and dust. He hits the ground, manages to roll to take the impact the way he has been trained to, though he feels the jolt of contact all the way up to his shoulders. Kuso, he thinks irritably, and rolls to regain his feet quickly. He's managed to hold on to Hyourinmaru, though he wouldn't have been any sort of shinigami if he couldn't.

He coughs, his eyes stinging with dust, but he doesn't need them to make out the indistinct shape of his opponent, to feel the reiatsu beyond the cloud, sharp, cold beyond measure, and howling and intent on only one thing: his death.

Disconcerting, he thinks, glancing at your own features, speaking to and battling a foe who had your memories…who was you.

"Man, you're no challenge at all," the reigai taunts. Arrogant, Hitsugaya thinks. Or it is a feint. Which is it? Duels are not won through blades alone. They are won in the mind. They both know this. He holds Hyourinmaru out to the side, ready to bring it up to deflect any sudden attack. He knows better than anyone else how he would close to distance between then in two quick steps and then an attack. "I suppose your pride won't let you turn away from a reigai and run, eh?"

"You've got it all wrong," he says, in measured response. The reigai are different from the originals. They know that. They are stronger, just as determined, and he has heard only a little about his reigai from Kuchiki Byakuya. The trick is, how is he going to use that difference to his advantage? "It's because protecting Soul Society is the duty of the Gotei 13!" He straightens, points Hyourinmaru tip-first at the reigai in silent challenge.

Bright azure eyes narrow; he sees himself frown. The other Hyourinmaru comes up. "And you think you're going to protect Soul Society?" the reigai scoffs. "You can't even protect the people you want to protect. You're not strong enough. I am."

Hitsugaya meets his gaze calmly. How do you fight against yourself? Feints within feints. The only way against someone who knows all your strategies is to come up with new ones. Fast.

"That's your first mistake," he says, over the clash of blades, the cries of pain and the explosions of reiatsu. The reigai stands there, stock-still. He watches his eyes narrow; the cold, expressionless features still twisted in a smirk. But a glimmer of doubt.

The reigai's reiatsu is ice, a powerful interlocking lattice of crystal: desire and will and determination and his own native power, compounded by the massive spiritual pressure Inaba has imbued their doppelgangers with.

Hitsugaya knows ice. It is his element. His domain. He is the lord of winter, and he knows everything about the cold. Ice can shatter, if he can find a weak point to hit it at exactly the right angle.

Wills can be broken.

He is unprepared for the moment the reigai moves. He has been playing a different game from his counterpart, and now he is off balance when the reigai drives forward. He slashes out instinctively with Hyourinmaru, his body moving the way he has trained it to, before he can even consciously register the crackling sense of displacement, rushing air, space and reiatsu that he picks up when someone flash-steps.

He dodges left. The reigai goes right. He barely blocks the strike that he knows is coming; Hyourinmaru grazes his throat, the cold steel nicking his throat a hair's breath away from the jugular, but the true attack has yet to come. The reigai whirls about, and Hitsugaya senses the burst of reiatsu just as a shunpo brings his opponent in again. Hyourinmaru whips about and a chain clinks to the ground as a roaring dragon of high-pressured water slams into him with unstoppable killing force and smashes him backward, into the rubble. Ice flows where the dragon touches, cakes his skin, chilling him to the bone.

Kuso, he thinks, as the taste of blood floods his mouth. He flares his own reiatsu in turn, drawing on his own spiritual energy. The ice cracks, flaking off him and then his fingers find Hyourinmaru where he has fallen, just a few centimeters away.

They tighten around the hilt. Everywhere aches; muscles are protesting but he is used to ignoring pain. He forces himself back to his feet. His back protests; he has hit it a little too hard on a protruding chunk of rubble. There are cuts and bruises everywhere that he does not take stock of.

He can stand. He can fight. That is enough.

The reigai glances at him. "You're pathetic," he says. Hyourinmaru, released and in shikai form is held loosely by his side. Already, the clouds are gathering above as the sky darkens from the zanpakutou affecting the local weather conditions. "First blood to me."

Hitsugaya grips Hyourinmaru in both hands, bringing his sword up in a guard position. "Nice trick," he says, off-handedly, apparently unconcerned. "I remember using that when fighting Komari." He ignores the taunt, ignores the sting. It would be easy to allow himself to be infuriated, to pretend to be sloppy. But it is risky. He cannot afford to give more openings than he already has.

Throw the reigai off balance.

"I met the two reigais," he says, off-handedly. He watches the way his counterpart tenses, watches the way his wrists lock as he tightens his grip on the zanpakutou. Bad stance. No flexibility. "You're not doing much protecting."

"I'm not letting anyone stand in my way!" The reigai shouts. His eyes are furious. His reiatsu flares, and Hitsugaya allows his reiatsu to rise in response, the air dark and heavy with the scent of ice and lightning and the promise of rain.

"Put down your sword," Hitsugaya tells him, contemptously. "I'm standing in your way."

The next strike comes in a flurry of slashing cuts. He parries the first two, and then feels the chill as Hyourinmaru flicks out and nicks the skin under his right eye. He recognises the trick. The reigai has been aiming for above his right eye. If he'd been cut, he'd have bled, and then it would have slowly impaired his vision. He'd have been blind on his right side.

He whirls about to block a curving slash and then rotates his wrists in a revolving cut that would have split the reigai open from waist to groin if it had landed. There is the sharp bell-note as their blades meet, and their reiatsu clashes against each other, firm and unyielding like their muscles. Hitsugaya can only guess what drives the reigai.

He knows what drives him. Duty. People who need protecting. Obaa-san. Hinamori. Matsumoto, though he would never admit as much. He'd never needed to. He ducks a sweeping cut, blocks and then ripostes, feeling his sword connect. Now, the reigai, too, is bleeding, from a thin line drawn along his cheekbone. Blood seeps. Hitsugaya smiles. Now that the first element of surprise is gone, he is holding his own.

He says, "You're not much of a fighter."

The reigai says, "Aizen must have thought the same."

Hitsugaya allows himself to put more force behind his blows, his body taut. Anger surges, and he controls it. He always has. Losing his head in a duel against a dangerous opponent will get him killed, but two can play at that game.

Their swords lock again and he bodily shoves the reigai backwards, grabbing his opponent by the wrist and then sliding his blade on through to sink it into the reigai's shoulder—only to feel cold chain closing around his right leg, before the ice comes.

Shackles of ice form up swiftly, sealing up around his legs and holding him fast. The reigai's eyes are narrowed in concentration as he slashes out with Hyourinmaru, crying out "Guncho Tsurara!" Hammer and anvil. Hitsugaya knows this.

Kuso, Hitsugaya thinks, right before the daggers of ice hit him. "Soten ni zase, Hyourinmaru!" he calls out, releasing his own shikai. The burst of released power shatters the chains of ice which have bound his feet and he throws himself forward in a slashing cut aimed at the reigai's own feet. "Hyoru Senbi!" he counters, and the crescent of ice sweeps outward; blocked as the reigai brings Hyourinmaru up to focus his power and guard against the strike. Reiatsu flares, white-blue, sharp like sunlight on ice. There is a soft, muffled explosion of reiatsu and ice and more reiatsu, and Hitsugaya staggers backwards, trying to make out whatever is going on through the smoke-cloud that obscures his vision.

The smoke clears. A figure leaps towards him, Hyourinmaru trailing in a long, gliding sweep from above. Hitsugaya is already moving, already leaping into the air. He knows better than to meet the unstoppable on the ground. He turns, rolls and then leaps, making a spear of his blade. The thrust catches the regai but only along the side and as Hitsugaya lands, scattering droplets of blood from Hyourinmaru's edge.

Drip. Drip.

He turns, bringing Hyourinmaru up and around in a slash. "Guncho Tsurara!" he hisses between clenched teeth, the sweep of his sword through the air scattering ice-daggers, sending them slicing at the reigai. It is a distraction, nothing more, and he flings a few more at the reigai, feeling the air part as the reigai takes a few shunpo strides and makes it towards him. He turns aside the downward slash with a two-handed block, and then flicks his wrist to send the chain wrapping around the other Hyourinmaru with the skill that has made him a champion at spinning tops, back in Junrinan.

The blade catches and locks. The reigai tries to slip free, but Hitsugaya's fingers close around his wrist in a grip of steel. "I said you made one mistake," he says quietly. He feels his reiatsu expand around them, as he draws on more and more of his energy, sapping the heat from the air around them with his spiritual pressure. All the water in their surroundings is his to command, yet it is the power he has shied away from using the most of all.

But now, the crumbled, shattered pieces of ice all over their battlefield are melting into the ground, ice flowing like water, drawn by his will, and the reigei snarls a curse as he realises he has lost. He has fallen into the trap he hasn't seen.

"I was wrong," Hitsugaya continues. "You've made two. First, you let me set this up." No amount of spiritual pressure can save the reigai now, not when their weapons are locked together, not when Hitsugaya is precisely poised to counter whatever reiatsu the reigai raises. Not when their duel has scattered slush all over the cracked tiling. "Second…"

The reigai can feel the reiatsu now, all the power gathering in answer to Hitsugaya's will, his determination to win. "You said you want to protect those who matter to you. That was when I knew you were weak. Captains do not protect. We defend. When you protect, your world and your view shrinks down to a single person. Your power and your determination to win is only that of one person. I am Captain Hitsugaya Toushiro, of the Tenth Division. Defending Soul Society is my duty. Sennen Hyoro!"

The pillars of ice crackle, and form up around them. "I have my duty. That I may die is irrelevant," Hitsugaya says. "Can you say the same?"

"Hado 4: Byakurai!" the reigai snaps out, and Hitsugaya takes the white-hot flash of lightning, straight through his shoulder. It is will, resolution that keeps his fingers tightly locked, that keeps the reigai pinned at ground zero. He is the anvil now, unmoving, unmoveable and the hammer-blow is going to smash in on them. "Hado 33: Sokatsui!" Blue fire smashes at the ice pillars, forcing some of them to crumble. But the ground ice runs together and slowly reforms. The pillars slowly draw together, drawn in by Hitsugaya's will.

"Hyourinmaru!" Hitsugaya cries out, and at last, the reigai sees the last misdirection.

He has forgotten their blades are bound together. A trick that Kurosaki Ichigo has often used to his advantage.

How do you defeat yourself?

Misdirection. A feint within a feint within a feint. Fight like someone else.

The dragon of ice and water forms around their locked blades and smashes into the reigai at point-blank range, before he can think to blink or to try to deflect the stroke. And then, at last, the pillars of ice grind together.

Ice crackles; shatters. Hitsugaya is on his hands and knees, panting. The fight has taken more out of him than he has guessed, more than he can admit. He watches as a body turns to dust, as a tiny, red, core bounces on the ground and rolls pathetically towards him.

Hyourinmaru is by his side, within his grasp. He picks up the sword, and thrusting it point-first into the ground, manages to struggle to his feet. He stares at the red capsule, and reflects that it looks far too much like a modsoul.

He pockets it, and then limps away.

Slice.

The sword makes lazy passes through the air. The first cut is smooth, but Hitsugaya frowns in concentration as he feels his straw sandals slipping against the polished flooring. It throws him a hair off-balance, and that is not where he wishes to be.

Slow. Unhurried. Perfection is the key. These exercises are basic, but his zanjutsu has been slipping. Perfecting the form is essential to mastery, and he has to be better. He has further to go, and knowing that the improvement is in reach drives him, the same way it always has.

The blade sings through the air, of ice, of duty of resolve.

You are getting better.

A statement.

Hitsugaya says, "Not enough." Another fact.

Yes.

The sword whistles through the air. Hitsugaya does not know it is coming, but he hears the whistle, senses the intent that fills the attacks: action must be filled with intent, when striking, you must feel the desire to kill in every cell, in every particle of the movement when you fill the space—

And the instructor's voice melts away as Hyourinmaru whips up and around to deflect the downward slash. He is practicing his swordsmanship alone, or he would have flung a Guncho Tsurara to keep his opponent off-balance.

Blades cross. Hitsugaya is moving now, light as a feather, keeping the pressure tight against his opponent's sword. Shoulders set tight, he dances aside to let the sword slip past him and then tries to get in and under with a series of slashing cuts. He is parried, and the swords sing as they meet, and Hitsugaya feels the bone-deep clash of the exchange as steel meets unyielding steel, all the way up to his shoulder-blades.

It feels good. It feels right.

He shoves at their crossed blades; the swords part, and Hitsugaya turns the off-balance stumble into a quick roll, feeling the passage of the sword parting the air above his head. He regains his feet and then parries the next blow.

They hit each other from opposite directions, blades moving in mirror images of the other. Eyes the green of winter-ice meet fierce scarlet. Heads dip in a nod of acknowledgement. He has come far. He has further still to go, much more yet to learn.

But…life is good. He has that. Later, after training, he will go to Junrinan. He will see Obaa-san again. Hinamori is on the recovery. Soul Society is rebuilding. And he has the time to grow stronger. To push himself to his limits. To become better.

He does not watch the passage of sparks as their blades meet, as he feels his reiatsu mirrored, will and resolve and determination all, and something more than that: the drive to succed.

The figure catches Hitsugaya's uppercut on his matching sword.

Better than the last time we fought.

"Yes." He cannot remember the last time he's trained in this manner for so long. Perhaps that explains the…satisfaction he feels, when a strike resounds against his defense, when he can show Hyourinmaru just how much he has improved.

You are not afraid. You were afraid for them. Granny. Hinamori.

"Not anymore."

Not anymore. Never when we fight. Quizzical tilt of the head. Why?

Testing.

Hitsugaya does not let up on the pressure. He grunts as he is shoved backwards, the lesser in this contest of strength and slams against the wall of the training room. He is on his feet in the next moment, recovering with cat-like speed to deal a series of lightning-fast slashes, forcing his opponent backwards.

"Everyone is afraid," he says. "It's what you do when you're afraid that matters."

You care for her.

"She's my sister," he says sharply and blocks a whirling kick, jabs with his sword to give himself some breathing room. "What kind of brother doesn't wish to protect his sister?"

Do you regret it?

An open question that hangs in the air between them. Obaa-san, the night he left. Ice creeping slowly across the floor. You'll kill her, Matsumoto says, bluntly. Hinamori's hands, bleeding. You killed Aizen-taicho. She is screaming. He runs his blade through her. He binds the two reigai and leaves them there, turning his back on them. He fights them, knocking them out, one after another.

Becoming Captain of the Tenth, and all the duties it entailed. Leaving Junrinan. Learning Hyourinmaru's name, speaking to him. Unlocking his power, and with it, taking one long step towards fulfilling his potential and coming into his own.

He can't imagine a different life, however he tries.

"No," Hitsugaya says. His hands clench the hilt of his zanpakutou but he does not lie. It is not his nature, no lies between the two of them, at least. He says again, "No regrets. Not anymore. I do what I must do."

Then I am…content.