Post by Kionchi on Jul 26, 2015 14:00:03 GMT -5
They say the most lonely feeling in the three worlds is for a shinigami to be separated from their zanpaktou. To have a part of yourself literally torn away and kept from the rest. THe unlucky few who've experienced such pain described it as losing a child. And yet there's a phantom effect that lingers deep in your spirit. A kind of unsettling weight or the sound of that encouraging voice. A kind of mocking reminder of your partner long gone no more comforting than the echo of a breeze blowing into that chilling cavity deep in your heart.
But what few bother pondering is the effect it has on the zanpaktou.
Of course in most cases the spirit is gone. Destroyed or reformed or sealed unconscious. Safe from any scars be they mental or metaphysical. Don't get the wrong impression: The spirit is undoubtedly changed. Twisted. Warped. Corrupt. Even made pure. There's no denying that the severance of a bond for any length of time would leave even a reflection of one's soul unchanged. But the trial of the forsaken zanpaktou is so rarely a journey as harsh as that of its wielder. After all they are fundamentally a sword. And no matter how romantic the idea of a samurai's soul, a true warrior can always fight with another weapon.
But what of a sword without a master?
The spirit lie broken sprawled on the metal floor. The cage was just enough to let her lie, her silken black hair spread across its cold surface like the wings of a dead crow. Her thin white silk kimono was torn in several places, her legs and feet cut where she had tried to climb or squeeze through the bars of her cell. It wasn't that the prison had itself hurt her. But rather that she had learned the hard way that the bars were meant not to keep her in, but to keep others out. And while she couldn't see beyond the confines of her cage she knew they were there. Those claws and teeth and spines ready to rip and pierce and gnaw the second she left the safety of her prison. Those invisible eyes watching from beyond the veil of darkness that was the mad-king's own gut. The frail bird knew not what world lie beyond, but only that escape would make things far worse for both her and her beloved master.
Hugging the football sized magatama tightly, she felt the warm jade gem glowing near her chest. It was the only memory she could manifest in that world. The last vestige of her former power and yet it was no comfort to the spirit once so dangerous and sharp. No longer could the pale woman access her katana, the blades of so many other worlds a sort of foreboding security founded in the comfort of her ruthless might. She only had this green jewel. That memory. That shame. And she refused to let go, even if it meant prolonging her suffering.
WC: 506; GP: 10; TGP: 10