With his guest departed, Danjūrō made his way to his private quarters. Given that he was a seated officer, he was given a modest sized dwelling, but as a fifth seat his quarters were hardly substantial. Stepping along a long wooden corridor, he slid open a paper door, revealing his single bedroom. Despite its humble design, the decorations filling the room gave the entire thing a cluttered but extravagant appearance. Costumes, props, feathers, fans, masks, paintings, papers, poetry, books, sculptures, an entire assortment of random objects he had collected and created throughout the years for his various celebrations and festivities. A large mirror took up an entire wall, a vanity filled with brushes, combs, and all sorts of hygienic products. Danjūrō was after all a well kept man. In all, it looked like the changing room of an actor and the chaotic workshop of an artist, rather than the neat and tidy dwellings of a regimented soldier.
Placing his new paintings onto the wall, and setting his easel down in the corner. Danjuro discarded his sweaty clothes and examined himself in the large mirror. Not even a trace of a scar remained, where once he was tiger-striped with burns and bruises. The hole in his torso had been completely repaired, with the only remnant of the injury being a slight ache. The most stylish shinigami was certainly an impressive healer, a testament to the abilities of the Fourth Division. They had come a long way in these past ten years, refusing to let the time of peace make them complacent.
Danjūrō wished he could say the same for the Eighth Division, but it seemed to him that they hadn’t developed much. During the invasion, the Eighth had transferred artifacts out of their secure facility to play the part of a morgue, a task better suited for the Fourth Division. This allowed artifacts once fortified and protected to fall back into the private hands of the Shihoin clan, free from oversight by the Gotei Thirteen. This matter was never truly addressed, and the Eighth continued on doing very little but inventory checks and cultural engagement. Danjūrō wondered, if a dangerous artifact surfaced, say a part of the Soul King or the reality altering Ōin, was his division currently capable of handling the threat? They were without a captain, or even a lieutenant after all.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, Danjūrō intended to make good on his promise to Kaoru. He folded a clean Shihakushō, grabbed an ivory comb, his Zanpakuto, and the Denreishinki Gyōja gave him, which Kouei had made Danjūrō promise to carry on his person at all times. Then, leaving his room, he began to make his way to the Eighth Division Onsen. The bath house was not nearly as fancy as S
hinigami's Health Land (死神健康ランド,
Shinigami Kenkō Rando), but it served well in keeping the members housed at Eighth Division clean and refreshed.
As he walked Danjūrō thought of Hideo and Suzume, admiring the love the two shared, a bond that should not be separated by the tragedy of responsibility and duty. Their attention was split between each other and their respective families, the Shihoin and Feng. Love and family, things deserving of one’s attention, and yet all the more tragic when lost in the line of duty. Ten years ago the love birds had both nearly died fighting Valiosa, with Hideo losing his arms in the process. Since then, the Third Seat continued to overwork himself to the point of exhaustion. Danjūrō felt there was too much responsibility placed on Hideo, things were slipping between the cracks, and the Eighth Division was becoming an obstacle in his relationship with Suzume.
Arriving at the bathhouse, Danjūrō took a deep breath in, inhaling the humid, aromatic air, which smelled of natural herbs almost like green tea. Simply being in the presence of the onsen felt healing alone, and already Danjūrō’s body began to relax. Sliding into the warm water of the bath, he released his breath with a sigh of relief. Letting the waters wash over him, he could feel his body growing numb, his aches and soreness slipping away as he continued his train of thought.
Danjūrō felt the weight of responsibility would fall on his shoulders in the face of another disaster. That somehow, this time, it would be on him to uphold the duties of the Eighth Division and protect its members. He had a habit of doing such, placing the burden of others onto himself. It was why he trained so hard, putting his body in harm's way to the point of needing a specialized healer. It was why he was here now, recovering from the night he had. Yet still, he trained in secret, downplaying his abilities and hiding his strength until circumstances demanded he rise to the occasion. He avoided leadership and responsibility in the public eye while accepting that he had to train for it in private. He knew he had to stay strong to save others, but he enjoyed his independence, the freedom to do as he pleased when he pleased. He just wasn’t willing to give that up, not yet.
“Coward.”
A voice rang out, clear as day. Danjūrō was not alone. Opening his eyes in surprise, he took in his surroundings only to find that he was under water. Had he fallen into the bath? No, he could tell that he was no longer in the Onsen, or rather, he no longer saw the Onsen around him. Instead, he was completely submerged in boiling water, as though floating above an undersea volcano.
Yet, a mere fifty feet from him, Danjūrō could see hundreds of empty seats in front of him. Dimly lit in darkness, these seats were untouched by the water, as though an invisible barrier kept it at bay. While another fifty feet behind him was an ornate painting representing a vast ocean in its two dimensions, also untouched by the boiling water.
Danjūrō made no attempt to swim towards either the painting nor the empty seats, knowing well that no matter how far he moved, neither would grow closer. This was his inner world, and while the scenery of his immediate surroundings was always shifting, the only constant in this world was the empty theatre and painting that surrounded him. The metaphor was clear, Danjūrō was an actor on a stage, and while each scene was different, the theatre never changed.
Despite the heat of the water, Danjūrō’s skin would not burn, more than resistant to these temperatures naturally. He floated there, looking around the depths for the source of the voice he heard in his head. However, there was nobody. That was, until Danjūrō turned around. Suddenly, in front of him, stood Aragoto, the embodiment of his Zanpakuto, Tachiyaku’s, Umbrella form.
Aragoto did not float, but stood independently on an unseen platform, as though unphased by the water surrounding him. Ornate in his appearance, he donned the traditional garb of a Kabuki actor, with a white ceramic mask covering his face, painted with symbolic red markings. He glared up at Danjūrō with piercing blue eyes, the same as his wielder’s, yet filled with contempt.
“You should have let your wounds end you.”
“At least then you would have spared us the embarrassment of your existence."
His words were harsh, but his posture showed no intention of attacking. Though there was hostility in his demeanor, this was not Jinzen. Danjūrō had ensured that his Zanpakuto spirits had their fill of violence for the day, any further assault would just be wasted effort. No, this was not combat but communication, the natural progression of any relationship after a fight.
“Ah, I must have drifted off.” Danjūrō said casually, still gathering his bearings. He had tried and failed to observe his surroundings in the real world while trapped here in his inner world, just as he had this morning during his painting session. The fact that he couldn’t meant he had to be unconscious in some form. It was no surprise, given the lengths he put himself through today. The comfort of the Onsen undoubtedly caused him to fall asleep. Still, he was relieved that here in his inner world he was at least fully clothed, as he would hate to be put in such a vulnerable position during such a serious conversation.
“I’m sorry, Aragoto, but I’m too tired to die today. I want to see another sunset. Maybe I could die tomorrow instead?”
His humor was lost on the Zanpakuto spirit, whose piercing glare was the only sign of emotion behind that impenetrable mask.
Danjūrō went to speak again, but a chill ran down his spine.
Suddenly, an elongated hand wrapped around his chest, and he could feel something cold pressing against his back. Behind him, clung Wagoto, the embodiment of Tachiyaku’s fan form.
“And live another day pretending to be a drunkard, an idiot, and a fool?”
“Why do you shame us so?”
Hauntingly, Wagoto wrapped herself around Danjūrō, resting a hand on his shoulder as she spoke into his ear. Her face too was hidden, behind the traditional visage of a Noh mask. She wore an ornate green kimono, matching the feathers of Tachiyaku’s fan. While long black hair fell in strands around her, its length reaching all the way to the invisible ground to pool at Danjūrō’s feet.
Danjūrō did not have an answer for the spirit, or rather, he was not yet ready to confront that answer himself. The truth was, the more he made his strength known, the more risk he placed on those he cared about. He felt it was too dangerous to draw too much attention. He was more frightened by the thought of someone else getting hurt than he was about the loss of his own life. Tachiyaku was right, it is cowardice in this way, but one derived from selflessness, not self preservation.
“Embarrassment. Shame. Have my actions truly caused you such hardship?”
“You ask for the power to wield us…” “Then wield us and act so powerless.”
The two worked in harmonic tandem, showing a rare moment of cohesion where usually they were so competitive for Danjūrō’s attention. Wagoto at Danjūrō’s back, Arogoto at his front, they worked together in their shared resentment, to confront their wielder’s negligence.
“They should sing praises to us on the battlefield!” Arogoto shouted through gritted teeth, his hands balling into fists. Around them, the scene of boiling water gave way to the aftermath of a battlefield, flames flickering to silhouette broken spears and a field of corpses. No longer floating, Danjūrō could feel the warmth of blood seep into his sandals.
“Tales told in gratitude of tragedies avoided.” Whispered Wagoto, as the scene around Danjūrō changed once more. No longer a battlefield, instead he stood in the center of a pile of rubble. Around him, some sort of structure had collapsed, and he could hear the voices of children crying for help on the other side. Desperately, Danjūrō looked for the source of the voices, but could see only empty seats in the distance.
“Yet you rob us of such glory…” Aragoto spoke, exiting the scene as he stepped back, disappearing into the darkness outside.
“And hide us from the world.” Wagoto continued, as she too exited the scene, releasing her grip on Danjūrō and drifting weightlessly into the darkness.
Alone, Danjūrō stood in the center of the stage, its depicted scene having faded into nothing now but a limelight. In front of him, pierced into the planks of the now wooden floor, was Tachiyaku’s sealed form. It beckoned to him, daring him to grasp its handle and free it. Instinctually, Danjūrō reached out to do so…
…and hesitated.
