584Chapter 2: At the Altar of a Forgotten God
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Much changed in the year that passed after Grimmjow learned Pantera's name, as the idyllic days of his childhood came to a sudden and unequivocal end.
His mother was not well, gripped by an illness that struck swiftly and made her cough and cough without end. She seemed to waste away day by day, and with no siblings, the duty to care for her fell to Grimmjow.
Life in the village was changing as well. News of the threat from the west had travelled home in the time Grimmjow was away, so that when he and his father returned from negotiations with their brother tribes, everyone in the village knew. The decades of peacetime were soon to come to an end, and their way of life would have to adapt.
Boys in the village would begin their warrior training as early as their ninth summer, younger even than Grimmjow had been when he'd begun his. And Grimmjow, once shunned for his savagery, was now called upon to help teach them.
When diplomacy failed and war proved inevitable, Grimmjow's father left with half their tribe's warriors to join forces with their brothers on the western borders. They would attempt to hold off an invasion, hoping to buy some time for those left behind to prepare. Grimmjow's father forbade him from this journey, telling him that his place, for now, was in their village. His parting words to his son were simple: Protect your mother. Protect our home.
Grimmjow clutched Pantera, the sword warm in his hands as though ignited by inner fire, and bid his father farewell.
When the last leaves fell from barren trees, news of his father's death in the borderlands arrived from the west, and Grimmjow's mother, who had been clinging to life for a reunion that never came, saw no reason to live on into this frightening new time.
There was no time to grieve. Winter was upon them early that year, despite prayers for mercy from Hyorinmaru. Early chill killed a portion of the harvests, and more than a handful of people succumbed to sickness and hunger.
The stars were displeased, people began to whisper. Hyorinmaru's anger had been roused, or perhaps Senbonzakura had seen his empty altars and did not deign to bring the first bloom of spring. But, most of all, people spoke of Zangetsu.
The great sword was incomplete, for where the red star of Ichigo should have been there was only darkness. Never, for as long as anyone could remember, had a star disappeared from the night before, and the implications of Ichigo's sudden absence birthed fear and despair.
But there were none who felt Ichigo's disappearance more keenly than Grimmjow.
At first, he had not understood. He had stared at the heavens in stunned silence, disbelieving and incredulous. The star to whom Grimmjow had given his unwavering faith and devotion was suddenly and inexplicably…gone. Ichigo, and Ichigo alone, had been privy to Grimmjow's every whispered fear and uncertainty, in a way that Grimmjow had shared with no other living soul. His tribe called him fearless because Grimmjow burdened no one with his troubles, because Ichigo knew every one of them and promised him safety so that Grimmjow did not have to fear.
He had prayed to the star every night for as long as his memory stretched. He had slept in the open fields beneath its light more times than he could count. He had wept before it, sung its praises, and vowed his devotion.
Grimmjow still gazed upon the broken blade of Zangetsu on occasion, but when he knelt on one knee with his head bowed in the proper deference owed to a star, prayer would not come to him. What was the use in praying to one who was not there? The other stars of Zangetsu were yet unchanged. Shirosaki still shone in brightest white at the tip of the blade, but without its master at the hilt, the sword was without purpose.
Ichigo's absence was not temporary. Grimmjow searched for the star the night before his father departed from their village for the last time, but Ichigo was not there to grant safe travel and protection in battle. The star was not there when his mother drew her last breath, nor when the winter storms threatened to tear his home down and hunger gnawed at his belly.
From the night Ichigo disappeared and all through the winter, Grimmjow's people performed their sacrifices. Goats and sheep and prized steer were bled before his altar. Bread and cheese needed to feed hungry mouths were burned to atone for any perceived slights or insults to the god. But still Ichigo did not return, and the people grew frantic.
What had offended the star so deeply that he would abandon them in this time of greatest need?
When the spring finally arrived to greet the bedraggled, weary survivors of the difficult winter, offerings at Ichigo's altar diminished to a trickle, and then ceased altogether. The great sword had been broken for a year now. The protector had forsaken them.
The faithlessness of his people angered Grimmjow. Tried by hardship though he was, he continued to bring an offering to the shrine every fourth night long after every other person had stopped. Blood from fresh slaughters, for all gods demanded carnal sacrifices. Fruit on the new moons, for Ichigo had a particular fondness for sweets. It was customary to say a short prayer of thanks after burning offerings, but the words always died in Grimmjow's throat when he saw the blank spot in Zangetsu's hilt.
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"The other stars have not forsaken us, Grimmjow."
It was summer now, the season of greatest abundance. It had followed on the tail of a brief but revitalizing spring, and brought the land to swell with food and drink. The pains of the previous year had not faded from the hearts of the people, but summer was generous and lavished upon them warm days and ample fruit.
Grimmjow did not have many friends, but Shawlong was one of few who tolerated his vulgarities and brash manner. His father too had gone to the borderlands and perished there, but unlike Grimmjow, Shawlong still had a mother and a young wife to care for.
Grimmjow brushed him off, but Shawlong's hand fell heavy on his shoulder. He was looking at the covered basket of fruit in Grimmjow's arms with an air of weary exasperation.
"We ride to war tomorrow. Pray to Kenpachi for strength, or Komamura for power. These are stars our voices may still reach. Do not squander your efforts on one who cannot hear you!"
But Grimmjow shrugged him off. "My business is my own," he growled. He pulled the basket away from Shawlong's disapproving gaze and pushed past him.
With no one but the singing cicadas for company, he took the winding trail to the top of a small hill overlooking much of the village. Grimmjow frowned to see how unkempt the path was, for it was almost overtaken by wild grasses. Up ahead, the twin trees framing the gates had been allowed to grow unpruned, and dead leaves littered the shrine's stone floors, strewn about by wind and rain.
Grimmjow laid his basket of offerings on the altar before sweeping away the detritus with a broom he kept at the shrine's gates for this purpose. His movements were agitated, his wrists snapping a sharp flick, flick like the tail of an angry cat with every sweep.
With no one to bring offerings, the shrine had been allowed to fall into disrepair. Grimmjow had neither the time nor knowledge to maintain the trees and gardens, but he made sure the floors at least were kept clean. Ichigo deserved that respect, at least.
Finishing this task, he knelt before the altar, and let his hands perform the familiar rituals of sacrifice while his mind drifted elsewhere.
Tomorrow, he and most of the remaining warriors in his tribe were setting out for the borderlands to join their brothers. The western nation had been kept in check thus far, but new reports suggested that they would not be for much longer. In his father's absence, the people now looked to Grimmjow to lead them to war. It was a burden Grimmjow had not asked for, but with the trials of the past year and Ichigo's disappearance, he could not tell them no.
The other warriors were enjoying their last night at home with loved ones, but Grimmjow had no family left to see him off in the morning.
His heart was heavy as he uncovered the basket and laid it all out upon the altar. There was a fragrant cake made of honey and milk, peaches as soft as baby skin and apples the color of a young girl's blush, succulent grapes and sweet pears and an abundance of strawberries, for Ichigo was said to favor these most of all.
It was a splendid array, and perhaps the grandest that Grimmjow had prepared for his favored god. It seemed fitting to offer as much on his last night in the village, for it was uncertain whether Grimmjow would return here again.
One by one, Grimmjow washed the fruits and dabbed them with oil. Half of them he placed upon the burning tray to be consumed by the fire. The other half and the cake were left on the altar to be scavenged by passing animals, for it pleased the god to see his supplicants give to lesser souls.
When it was all done, the man sat at the feet of the altar, watching the fruit blacken and peel in the embrace of dancing flames. Thick black smoke billowed and curled up and up, reaching for the stars themselves. If Ichigo had truly abandoned his people, never again to return to his place in the sky, then Grimmjow would at least give thanks for the twenty years of protection the god had given him.
His boyhood was behind him. The growing pains of adolescence had subsided, leaving in their wake a handsome young man of twenty-one who moved with the grace of a wildcat and fought with the ferocity of one too. His father had done his duty and taught him all he could. His mother had nurtured him and given him warmth. He had been allowed to grow in a time of peace and prosperity, and for that, Grimmjow should be grateful.
Why, then, did he feel so abandoned?
Grimmjow rested his back to the altar and his eyes fell by habit to the constellation of Zangetsu. Though he was by now accustomed to it, Ichigo's absence struck a dull ache in his heart. Grimmjow wondered if he should pray. He had not in almost a year.
He wondered who would tend to the shrine after he left tomorrow. No one, probably. The altar would be empty but for dry leaves, and weeds would overgrow the garden. The image of the shrine of his most beloved star falling to ruin moved Grimmjow to speak, at long last.
It was not quite a prayer, for he was not in the proper kneeling form with his head bowed, but rather, sitting with his back propped against the altar and arm resting on one knee. The gods did not take notice of men who spoke at them so casually, but no matter, Grimmjow thought. Perhaps Shawlong was right, and he was wasting his breath.
"I leave for war tomorrow, Ichigo," he said to the empty night. "I do not know what happened to you, but wherever you are, you better be watching me. Pantera and I, we shall grind them all to dust. I want you to see it."
A wicked grin curled his lips. Despite everything—the fear for his nation, his people, and their way of life—despite all he had been taught to fear about war, Grimmjow felt a terrifying, hungry thrill of elation for battle. Touched by Kenpachi, his elders said of him. He would show them just how right they were.
"I do not know if you will get visitors here after tonight," Grimmjow admitted. "But if there are other villages where I go, I will visit their shrines to you."
The night grew late, and down below at the foot of the hill, Grimmjow watched the lights flicker out one by one as people prepared for sleep.
There was little point in returning to his house. There was no one waiting for him there, and the night was warm enough. Grimmjow untied Pantera from his side so that he could sleep more comfortably, and lay down on his back with his arms folded beneath his head. The sword rested against his arm, and it was warm as though it had lain beneath the midday sun for many hours. Grimmjow let himself be comforted by Pantera's familiar weight and heat, as he had once been comforted by the sight of the red star.
As his breaths slowed and evened out, the sacrificial fire on the altar grew smaller and smaller until finally it too dimmed to embers. The summer cicadas droned on, like the earthly voice of stars that twinkled silently above. Not long ago, a warm summer night like this one would have been an ideal occasion to celebrate Ichigo.
But tonight, his shrine was empty. There were no processions, no priests, no worshipping crowds.
There was only Grimmjow. Just a man at the altar of a forgotten god.
Illustration for this chapter:
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