Seven years ago, Hisana moved into the manor, causing the seemingly rock-solid foundation of the Kuchiki Clan tremble in her wake. The silence, then, had been in motion, tittering precatiously between the past and the future. Two years ago, the oscillations came to a stop. One year ago, the girl moved in.
And now, the Sixth has a new captain. The silence around him seems deeper somehow, more encompassing, from how the members of his division go quiet, proper and restrained whenever he's near to the way the emptiness of the hallways, in the barracks or here in the manor, echoes from the sounds of his own footsteps. It's never-ending. Even now, as Byakuya works his way through yet another set of kata with Senbonzakura, each movement automatized and fluent from decades of repetition, he senses it. How the world around him remains steadfastly unmoved by everything he does, every movement, every flicker of his blade.
Indeed, the silence, such as it is now, the thing it has become - it has taken root in this new reality where he's the head of his clan, the leader of his division and the brother of a living ghost, a walking and talking echo of the life that has passed into stillness.
So he trains, his bangs clinging to his forehead and the side of his face, his hands damp, the thick calluses of his palms vital at this point in securing Senbonzakura in his grip. It's something he needs to grow past. He reaches his physical limitations much too easily still.
If nothing else, his harsh breathing certainly disturbs the quiet ]
[ He measures the silence of this house, as he has measured the silence of everything since Natsu's death, in weeks. Isamu counts them, six weeks ago he returned from the far corners of Soul Society without her and was, understandably, let go from his position, working for the Hayashi family which his family has done for generations. You served us well, Natsu's father said to him, Isamu lying face down in front of his feet, expecting to be cut, until you didn't. Take this, a piece of paper was thrown before his head, and go to the Kuchiki Manor, they'll make sure you don't die of hunger. That was how his life ended, six weeks ago.
Now, he works at the Kuchiki Manor, he does laundry for the guest houses, working under the supervision of a man who corrects his grip constantly. Wrong, Isamu. Not like that. He has learned how to lift kimono more expensive than his entire existence, and Isamu does it automatically now, trying not to think of last time he lifted a kimono as valuable as these. And what he did with it.
Usually he works at the steam tubs, his face an ugly red after a full day in the heat, but today is tub cleaning day and they've run out of lye. Isamu, being the most recent transfer, has been sent to fetch more. He does so gladly, work is his only distraction, but the hallways all look alike, as do the doors, and he quickly loses his way, ending in a part of the house he isn't even certain he's allowed to enter.
Still, although the doors are slid shut and someone's in there, the sound of feet againt mats, clothes rustling, Isamu halts by the entrance to the next room, thinking that in this household, at least, they will cut him as a consequence, and slides one door slightly open. It is a sign of resignation, the way he bows low, then kneeling to emphasise his rank, trying not to look too obviously, to stare. The Kuchiki family is a family of soldiers. This could be anyone. And no one. He minds his manners regardless. Keeps his eyes on the floor. ]
My apologies. I'm new. [ Nothing connects the two sentences. He is not making excuses. This is unforgivable, yet... ] Forgive me for disturbing you.
[ Whether it is some Kuchiki cousin or his supervisor who sees him failing like this, it will undoubtedly come to the same. ]
[ Naturally, he hears the approaching footsteps from outside the dojo, though he pays them no need, expecting whomever's disturbing him not to prolong the issue unnecessarily. In this house, sound travels. The stillness flickers, vibrates - and then -
His skin prickles at the sound of the door, sliding open. The sudden, very unexpected sense of company, of another body sharing his space when he'd expected nothing of the kind, is almost startling. Forcing himself to ignore the intruder and complete his set, he lets the sounds of the man's words - quiet, relatively unobtrusive - fade into the air. He doesn't even allow himself to consider his existence for the next twenty-two seconds as he goes through the motions, finishing by sheathing Senbonzakura nearly soundlessly. Keeping his back to the other man, he allows the silence to stretch on for another thirty seconds, giving him the chance to back away and leave. Seike, he knows, is not near. The servant will suffer no consequences.
Then, when nothing else happens, Byakuya allows his fingers to slide over the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a gesture of idleness, one he immediately regrets. He says, voice low and completely devoid of any signs of exertion: ]
You could have remained silent.
[ Even as he says it, a part of him - something internal and raw - shudders. What, then, would he do? With more silence? With more of the same?
Frowning to himself, he glances over his shoulder. The servant is a nameless man, features blurred by his angle of sight as well as how he keeps his gaze firmly rooted to the mat. ]
[ For a long while, there is no response beyond the sound of the other man's movements, the way his sword cuts the air, his feet touch the floors, his clothes touch his body. Isamu waits and it is a stubborn kind of waiting, the kind that acknowledges that he is being given every available opportunity to save his dignity and his position, disappear not unseen, but unknown back into the hallways, but he remains where he is. He does not flee, because Isamu has lost his dignity many times over already and in the end, being unknown saved him nothing before.
Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
[ On the surface of things, it's a useless answer - after all, the only correct response would be an apology, followed by the man's swift departure. For a long moment, Byakuya's at war with himself which is, admittedly, nothing particularly novel or interesting. On the one hand, he should go back to ignoring the man, rather than waste anymore words on a servant who doesn't even know where he is. Conceivably, he doesn't know Byakuya either which speaks volumes as to how far down the ranks he must be in the household. On the other... on the other...
He glances down at his feet. In the very periphery of his vision, Senbonzakura sits in its scabbard, quieter these days than it ever was before. In that way, the silence of the house, of the world, seems to have seeped into the metal as well, as easily as if it were skin and bone. I've lost my way, says the nameless man.
In this house, he thinks, thoroughly uncharitably, that is not an impressive feat.
Ask someone else to show you the way, he doesn't say, because just thinking it makes his skin crawl. There's always someone who knows the way back to the sameness of any moment. It's such an exhausting truth. Hisana used to ask him how do I do this or what would they say if I... and he never liked to indulge her, though he did of course, time and again.
She, too, didn't want to be lost in his house, though she was, very often. Perhaps all the way until the end, even. ]
I am not the person to ask.
[ He turns towards the long row of shoji flanking the side of the dojo, sliding one open to let in the light from outside. It's late in afternoon and the air - cool and crisp, a touch of iciness creeping into the autumn breeze - immediately settles against his skin, chasing away the heat of his training regime. He breathes easier and wonders briefly whether the other man feels similar. Though he doesn't know much of a servant's life, becoming the head of the clan has definitely made him more aware of how hard they work, how diligently. He doesn't take it lightly. He trains to protect the house - they, in turn, keep it running.
And presumably, no matter what certain clan members would prefer to believe, everybody sweats the same. ]
[ I am not the person to ask, the man tells him and that much is obvious, because he is a part of the family and Isamu is the man they hired off the streets, because the situation in the Kuchiki Manor is shifting swiftly and noticeably, calling for more hands, more backs to carry the weight of the house as a whole. Isamu should ask this man nothing, he should do what he would have done ten years ago and stammer an apology, hoping not to get beaten for his efforts, scurrying off like a rat along the walls. Nevertheless, he senses in the unknown Kuchiki member's comment an underlying truth that goes beyond rank and placement within the canopy of the household. They are both men who do not know where they have suddenly found themselves. Between them, they may even hold a sense of not having a clear view of where to go from here.
Isamu raises his head as the other man walks over and opens the nearest shoji, letting the afternoon light in and fresh air, too, hearing himself breathe in deeply, long and hard, like he'd spent a long winter cooped up inside. It is not at all proper, but it feels nice and he hasn't felt nice about anything for six weeks and several months before that, walking the trails back to Seireitei alone. If it costs him his job, it will be a feeling that was worth it, as long as it lasted. A haiku is only seventeen on long, by comparison, and it can hold a life. Sometimes a short while will have to be enough. It will be all that you get and all that you need, truly.
If you do right by it.
As the man proceeds to share with him their location, Isamu sighs and rolls onto his feet, keeping his head bowed, though not as deeply as before. Opposite wing. Far from the guest houses that he serves. If he returns to a job, it will be a blessing - or what anyone might call the Kuchiki Manor, it is a constant in the landscape and a stronghold among the nobility, but a blessing might be giving it too much credit. It is what it is. The same way that they are what they are, the stranger and him.
They are, not only, but inevitably, set apart by the things that define their lives. Swords. Wash brushes. Names and titles. He bows, deep, slow. ]
Far away from where I was supposed to go, then. Thank you very much for your time. [ And finally, slowly, he begins backing away, upper body still slightly tilted at the hips, gaze stealing a glance rather than a stare from below lowered lashes. The man's hair, another thing that sets him apart, is sticking in strands to his forehead, temple, cheek.
He doesn't look like a man who is allowed to feel tired, but no one is beneath tiredness, Isamu thinks. ] I know it is precious.
[ The servant thanks him for his time, like it was a gift bestowed upon him when in actuality, they both know - oh, he senses that they both understand just fine - that it was merely a matter of convenience. Of grasping for something in this moment with unbecoming desperation. Really, to thank him is an insult - or it would be, at least, from another person. This man, in contrast, bows deeply and backs away, his posture betraying the ingrained humility of a man who's done nothing but serve for years and years, perhaps even his whole life. Had he been born into this house, he would have been someone with a point and purpose. I have lost my way, he said.
How, he could ask, would you know anything about what's precious - that would be sufficiently arrogant for Byakuya's reputation, at least. Instead, he notes the way the other man breathes in the freshness of the air, the balm that it grants them both for different (or perhaps, similar) reasons and realises that for the past many minutes, there's been a change to the room.
A change, when he'd thought there couldn't be any.
Then again, not many servants would dare to keep speaking, to keep intruding upon his personal space. Even if the man truly doesn't know who he is - and with how experienced he seems, it must be true that he doesn't, he'd never act this way otherwise - the fact that he is intruding is blatantly obvious. Perhaps this man is that one anomaly, the slight break in the waves before the surface returns to its familiar streams and currents. Perhaps that's all there is to it.
All the same, he turns away fully and says, clearly, commanding now: ]
[ And there, the change back into recognisable manner. The Kuchiki cousin, or whoever he is, an esteemed guest, a loyal guard from the Gotei 13, takes on a commanding air with him, clearly marking the difference between a sword and whatever tool that signifies servitude, today the wash brush, tomorrow the lack of either that or a sword. Empty hands. On his travels, he carried a staff for protection, isn't that so? Thus, Isamu should, from experience, know the position of a guard, too, but he doesn't feel he can claim that title aside from the loyal part, perhaps, if his reputation is that lucky. In the end, he didn't manage to guard much, after all.
She lies buried, and that, even sloppily, he was just one man to do the job, in the farthest corner of Soul Society.
His face betrays none of these feelings as he bows, again, with all the bowing his back will give out in ten years time, like his father's began to do, licking his lips and clearing his voice. Yes, Master, it means. Still, he doesn't speak those words exactly. It might be that he got too used to not only being a servant to her in all that time. It might be that he never thought it was right that he should be. Whatever the reason, Isamu just replies, curtly and to the point.
Knowing he might as well be asked, because even the Kuchiki Clan is no longer a fitting home to him. Home, right? A place of work, at least. Isamu never had a home aside from the road, and his father prided himself of them not being travelling servants... The irony stings. ]
Isamu.
[ Like all servants and most people from the Rukongai, there's only that. A given name. Nothing to denote family. He has his father, he had a mother once, too, but unlike the man before him, no doubt, they were not given a shared name to denote that they were family at all. They were individuals, haphazardly bound together.
[ Isamu. Courageous. Heroic. Byakuya doesn't respond or give him any further engagement, gaze gliding over the outside surroundings instead, the walled-in gardens deserted and the small pond still and undisturbed. He should get back to work. In a few hours, he has a meeting with Ginjiro concerning the guard schedules for next week because apparently, there are un-formalized ranks within the Sixth, not encouraged by his grandfather but ignored, rather (which amounts to about the same). Consequently, some people are used to certain privileges, privileges that they won't retain anymore. It will cause clan-wide disruption, Seike has warned him. Certain Kuchikis in the Sixth have been granted preferential treatment.
He detests the mere idea of it.
No, he has little time for idleness. Isamu leaves his presence, presumably aware of his location now and capable of finding his way back. Forward. Whatever he's supposed to be doing. Byakuya, on his part, knows exactly how to walk the path in front of him. It's not a matter of finding the way, it's the fact that becoming lost whilst doing so has become patently impossible. Getting lost, it appears, means having stakes in your life, a goal that matters enough that straying from your path becomes a disadvantage.
He's a captain now. A clan leader. He has Bankai.
And that's that.
Thoroughly uncomplicated, straightforward.
Courageous. If nothing else, Isamu the Servant must have a heart that knows where it needs to go, even if only to finish whatever lowly tasks he's been set by the house. Byakuya's own is a sharp edge now, something meant for war, to protect and maintain order. There's no other use for it. He sighs and runs his fingers across Senbonzakura's scabbard again, mindlessly, gaze tracking the shadows outside and seeing very little else. ]
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no subject
Seven years ago, Hisana moved into the manor, causing the seemingly rock-solid foundation of the Kuchiki Clan tremble in her wake. The silence, then, had been in motion, tittering precatiously between the past and the future. Two years ago, the oscillations came to a stop. One year ago, the girl moved in.
And now, the Sixth has a new captain. The silence around him seems deeper somehow, more encompassing, from how the members of his division go quiet, proper and restrained whenever he's near to the way the emptiness of the hallways, in the barracks or here in the manor, echoes from the sounds of his own footsteps. It's never-ending. Even now, as Byakuya works his way through yet another set of kata with Senbonzakura, each movement automatized and fluent from decades of repetition, he senses it. How the world around him remains steadfastly unmoved by everything he does, every movement, every flicker of his blade.
Indeed, the silence, such as it is now, the thing it has become - it has taken root in this new reality where he's the head of his clan, the leader of his division and the brother of a living ghost, a walking and talking echo of the life that has passed into stillness.
So he trains, his bangs clinging to his forehead and the side of his face, his hands damp, the thick calluses of his palms vital at this point in securing Senbonzakura in his grip. It's something he needs to grow past. He reaches his physical limitations much too easily still.
If nothing else, his harsh breathing certainly disturbs the quiet ]
no subject
Now, he works at the Kuchiki Manor, he does laundry for the guest houses, working under the supervision of a man who corrects his grip constantly. Wrong, Isamu. Not like that. He has learned how to lift kimono more expensive than his entire existence, and Isamu does it automatically now, trying not to think of last time he lifted a kimono as valuable as these. And what he did with it.
Usually he works at the steam tubs, his face an ugly red after a full day in the heat, but today is tub cleaning day and they've run out of lye. Isamu, being the most recent transfer, has been sent to fetch more. He does so gladly, work is his only distraction, but the hallways all look alike, as do the doors, and he quickly loses his way, ending in a part of the house he isn't even certain he's allowed to enter.
Still, although the doors are slid shut and someone's in there, the sound of feet againt mats, clothes rustling, Isamu halts by the entrance to the next room, thinking that in this household, at least, they will cut him as a consequence, and slides one door slightly open. It is a sign of resignation, the way he bows low, then kneeling to emphasise his rank, trying not to look too obviously, to stare. The Kuchiki family is a family of soldiers. This could be anyone. And no one. He minds his manners regardless. Keeps his eyes on the floor. ]
My apologies. I'm new. [ Nothing connects the two sentences. He is not making excuses. This is unforgivable, yet... ] Forgive me for disturbing you.
[ Whether it is some Kuchiki cousin or his supervisor who sees him failing like this, it will undoubtedly come to the same. ]
no subject
His skin prickles at the sound of the door, sliding open. The sudden, very unexpected sense of company, of another body sharing his space when he'd expected nothing of the kind, is almost startling. Forcing himself to ignore the intruder and complete his set, he lets the sounds of the man's words - quiet, relatively unobtrusive - fade into the air. He doesn't even allow himself to consider his existence for the next twenty-two seconds as he goes through the motions, finishing by sheathing Senbonzakura nearly soundlessly. Keeping his back to the other man, he allows the silence to stretch on for another thirty seconds, giving him the chance to back away and leave. Seike, he knows, is not near. The servant will suffer no consequences.
Then, when nothing else happens, Byakuya allows his fingers to slide over the hilt of his sword, not as a threat but as a gesture of idleness, one he immediately regrets. He says, voice low and completely devoid of any signs of exertion: ]
You could have remained silent.
[ Even as he says it, a part of him - something internal and raw - shudders. What, then, would he do? With more silence? With more of the same?
Frowning to himself, he glances over his shoulder. The servant is a nameless man, features blurred by his angle of sight as well as how he keeps his gaze firmly rooted to the mat. ]
Why are you here?
no subject
Never let the Master see you unless invited, Isamu's father used to tell him, when he was little and he played noisily, so he would disturb the whole household and the Hayashi head would stick an arm out the window, waving it annoyed. For we are not worth more than the air we breathe. Back then, Isamu had thought it was a stupid way to look at it, no one was worth more than the air they breathed, were they, but as he grew up, he understood why men like Natsu's father needed to put price tags on people. After all, he had the likes of Natsu. Who was precious.
Before this unnamed member of the Kuchiki Clan, Isamu thinks even the air he breathes is too valuable for him, the sounds he makes as he talks are wasted, but none of that has to do with one man carrying a sword and the other a wash brush. People are always more alike than different from one another, Natsu would say. It is only things that set them apart. Swords. Brushes.
Underneath...
The man moves, making Isamu glance up at him, meeting his eyes. He does not hurriedly look away, even if he does avert his gaze. They are just people, marked by things. The both of them. Keeping his voice pleasant, low, he murmurs: ]
I've lost my way. The worst reason to be anywhere.
[ While he is definitely talking about the western storage rooms, Isamu is also talking about more than the western storage rooms. About what you might lose or could possibly have gained beyond the intricate design of any household.
Walls can hold only so much, after all. ]
no subject
He glances down at his feet. In the very periphery of his vision, Senbonzakura sits in its scabbard, quieter these days than it ever was before. In that way, the silence of the house, of the world, seems to have seeped into the metal as well, as easily as if it were skin and bone. I've lost my way, says the nameless man.
In this house, he thinks, thoroughly uncharitably, that is not an impressive feat.
Ask someone else to show you the way, he doesn't say, because just thinking it makes his skin crawl. There's always someone who knows the way back to the sameness of any moment. It's such an exhausting truth. Hisana used to ask him how do I do this or what would they say if I... and he never liked to indulge her, though he did of course, time and again.
She, too, didn't want to be lost in his house, though she was, very often. Perhaps all the way until the end, even. ]
I am not the person to ask.
[ He turns towards the long row of shoji flanking the side of the dojo, sliding one open to let in the light from outside. It's late in afternoon and the air - cool and crisp, a touch of iciness creeping into the autumn breeze - immediately settles against his skin, chasing away the heat of his training regime. He breathes easier and wonders briefly whether the other man feels similar. Though he doesn't know much of a servant's life, becoming the head of the clan has definitely made him more aware of how hard they work, how diligently. He doesn't take it lightly. He trains to protect the house - they, in turn, keep it running.
And presumably, no matter what certain clan members would prefer to believe, everybody sweats the same. ]
This is the eastern wing.
no subject
Isamu raises his head as the other man walks over and opens the nearest shoji, letting the afternoon light in and fresh air, too, hearing himself breathe in deeply, long and hard, like he'd spent a long winter cooped up inside. It is not at all proper, but it feels nice and he hasn't felt nice about anything for six weeks and several months before that, walking the trails back to Seireitei alone. If it costs him his job, it will be a feeling that was worth it, as long as it lasted. A haiku is only seventeen on long, by comparison, and it can hold a life. Sometimes a short while will have to be enough. It will be all that you get and all that you need, truly.
If you do right by it.
As the man proceeds to share with him their location, Isamu sighs and rolls onto his feet, keeping his head bowed, though not as deeply as before. Opposite wing. Far from the guest houses that he serves. If he returns to a job, it will be a blessing - or what anyone might call the Kuchiki Manor, it is a constant in the landscape and a stronghold among the nobility, but a blessing might be giving it too much credit. It is what it is. The same way that they are what they are, the stranger and him.
They are, not only, but inevitably, set apart by the things that define their lives. Swords. Wash brushes. Names and titles. He bows, deep, slow. ]
Far away from where I was supposed to go, then. Thank you very much for your time. [ And finally, slowly, he begins backing away, upper body still slightly tilted at the hips, gaze stealing a glance rather than a stare from below lowered lashes. The man's hair, another thing that sets him apart, is sticking in strands to his forehead, temple, cheek.
He doesn't look like a man who is allowed to feel tired, but no one is beneath tiredness, Isamu thinks. ] I know it is precious.
no subject
How, he could ask, would you know anything about what's precious - that would be sufficiently arrogant for Byakuya's reputation, at least. Instead, he notes the way the other man breathes in the freshness of the air, the balm that it grants them both for different (or perhaps, similar) reasons and realises that for the past many minutes, there's been a change to the room.
A change, when he'd thought there couldn't be any.
Then again, not many servants would dare to keep speaking, to keep intruding upon his personal space. Even if the man truly doesn't know who he is - and with how experienced he seems, it must be true that he doesn't, he'd never act this way otherwise - the fact that he is intruding is blatantly obvious. Perhaps this man is that one anomaly, the slight break in the waves before the surface returns to its familiar streams and currents. Perhaps that's all there is to it.
All the same, he turns away fully and says, clearly, commanding now: ]
Tell me your name.
no subject
She lies buried, and that, even sloppily, he was just one man to do the job, in the farthest corner of Soul Society.
His face betrays none of these feelings as he bows, again, with all the bowing his back will give out in ten years time, like his father's began to do, licking his lips and clearing his voice. Yes, Master, it means. Still, he doesn't speak those words exactly. It might be that he got too used to not only being a servant to her in all that time. It might be that he never thought it was right that he should be. Whatever the reason, Isamu just replies, curtly and to the point.
Knowing he might as well be asked, because even the Kuchiki Clan is no longer a fitting home to him. Home, right? A place of work, at least. Isamu never had a home aside from the road, and his father prided himself of them not being travelling servants... The irony stings. ]
Isamu.
[ Like all servants and most people from the Rukongai, there's only that. A given name. Nothing to denote family. He has his father, he had a mother once, too, but unlike the man before him, no doubt, they were not given a shared name to denote that they were family at all. They were individuals, haphazardly bound together.
Yet, isn't everyone? ]
no subject
He detests the mere idea of it.
No, he has little time for idleness. Isamu leaves his presence, presumably aware of his location now and capable of finding his way back. Forward. Whatever he's supposed to be doing. Byakuya, on his part, knows exactly how to walk the path in front of him. It's not a matter of finding the way, it's the fact that becoming lost whilst doing so has become patently impossible. Getting lost, it appears, means having stakes in your life, a goal that matters enough that straying from your path becomes a disadvantage.
He's a captain now. A clan leader. He has Bankai.
And that's that.
Thoroughly uncomplicated, straightforward.
Courageous. If nothing else, Isamu the Servant must have a heart that knows where it needs to go, even if only to finish whatever lowly tasks he's been set by the house. Byakuya's own is a sharp edge now, something meant for war, to protect and maintain order. There's no other use for it. He sighs and runs his fingers across Senbonzakura's scabbard again, mindlessly, gaze tracking the shadows outside and seeing very little else. ]