Seeds In Rain [J. Saionji]

Patel had squandered the past two days---not in idleness, but pointless rigor. All kinds of laughable things could happen when he tried incantation-skipping as J had: a failed Hadō #1 that whipped-up dust about Patel, such that he spent the rest of the day sneezing. A backfired Geki that left him frozen in the middle of a dojo, leaving passersby impressed with what they mistook for meditation.

He had spent all day outside the walls casting Shakkaho, this time without Yomi's 'help' if it could be called that. Patel realized then that he had never cast the fireball into a perfect sphere: it was always a blob of some kind, an unstable, tumbling oblong shape that would burst against the first thing it struck. To refine it into a spherical and stable form, Patel found that reciting the incantation slowly and precisely helped, but he felt that he was overcompensating for something else that was missing.

What was it...? One Shakkaho after another, Patel felt remorse and absence, like flashes of lightning illuminating a pitch-black room for only fifths of a second each time. Improving his recital of the incantation was just putting a band-aid over something else. Could it have been intent, a vision of the spell, a cognition to cast that Kido incantations merely facilitated-?

Perhaps these would be questions for J. Saionji.

In the end, Patel did not sleep. True to his plan two days prior, Patel stayed up as late as he could, sleeping late into the afternoon---waking only for required duties, then going back to sleep whenever he could. Still, he was restless even in the sleep he got, and he dreamed of a perfectly spherical Shakkaho. He was hungry, so he dreamed of eating it yesterday, and it was delicious but it made him weep for reasons he could not recall upon waking.

Now, at four thirty, Patel made sluggish steps into the 6th squad training grounds as he had done before when he came to duel J. Saijonji. This time Patel was not empty handed: he carried a small bag, a brown clay cup half-full with water, and an improvised clay furnace.

Setting at the steps outside the dojo he had dueled J in, Patel put the clay furnace atop some gravel leading up to the dojo's front deck. "Ye lord... Mask of blood and flesh, all creation, flutter of wings, ye who bears the name of Man... Inferno and pandemonium, the sea barrier surges, march on to the south." Patel spoke in an unenthused incantation---not casting the spell on purpose. Rather, Patel conjured a simple fireball within the clay tube he was using as a furnace and put his cup of water on top.

While he heated up the water, Patel opened up the bag with him and dumped it into a broad, flat rock in his other hand: it was Kukicha, low-grade tea made from stems and discarded leafy bits. With another rock, Patel began grinding the stems into a fine powder, twisting and pressing the rock in his right hand into the flat stone his left hand supported like a crude mortar and pestle.

It did not take long to made a serviceable poor-man's matcha. Patel raises the broad flat stone to the edge of his cup, and uses the edge of his pinky to carefully brush the tea-powder into his clay cup. Once that was done, he put the rocks back where he had found them below the dojo's deck, and stirred his cup of matcha with a forked twig.

Patel extinguished his Kido-fueled flame a minute later, and then took a long drink from his cup in a patient, appreciative gulp; though it was bitter, Patel showed no sign of discomfort for the taste of the low-grade matcha, rather fond of bitter tastes.

Patel made sure to take his time and enjoy his break. There was a satisfaction that he could not find anywhere else in the glossy surface of his matcha, which depleted sip after sip. A buzz that was both calming and stimulating warms his blood. He used the last minutes of his tea-break to reflect over his practice, think about what he'd learned, and then imagine: what essential element of Kido was he missing-?

Just a minute or two before five, Patel made his way into the dojo, finding J. Saionji just as promised. However- he didn't expect to find him meditating. Patel watched him for a good minute before shutting the door behind him and making his way into the room, where he sat across from the other Shinigami as if to observe him. Not trying to hide himself, but making an effort not to disturb J, Patel began to imitate the larger man's poise and bearing---then his posture---before closing his eyes to start meditating too.

It wasn't something he did often, and that made it worth trying.

Patel's eyes open to the sound of J's voice, but then widen for his question. Had he not already explained himself that day-? No, that probably wasn't why J. Saionji was asking him for a better explanation...

The short Shinigami's head bows a little as he takes-on a sheepish expression. He presumed now that J asked him that more for Patel's sake, rather than his own. He decided to be as truthful and detailed as possible. "I had always been nothing." Patel begins, thinking it appropriate to not even elaborate on the rigors of his daily labor as a manservant. "... I was... a blissful little cockroach. I thought if I minded my business, did honest work and scavenged what others did not want, I could live a full life without blame." Continued the dark-skinned Shinigami, as he eased-back from sitting upright on his knees to leaning back against his heels. "It didn't bother me. I enjoyed that life. I gave thanks every day. Then, I met a Shinigami---Takuan Shozo." Patel added, his expression hardening just a little: it was unpleasant recalling Takuan's corpse.

Patel's head makes the shortest little nods, barely perceptible as he reckons with his memories. "He enjoyed the ascetic life, and wouldn't let me clean up after him. It's not as though I knew him very well, or visited him often---but he really was my friend. A few years later, and he died." Patel explained plainly, but his dissatisfaction with that result showed. "... Mostly naked, face-down in an alleyway. Couldn't tell if he killed himself or if it was someone else. Something had slowly been sucking the life out of him for years." Continued the now morose-faced junior Shinigami, who rests his hands on his knees and leans slightly forward now.

His shifting posture betrays his discomfort. "I don't know what changed in me so quickly, but---the moment I saw his Zanpakuto, I thought 'this is how I escape.' And I took it. And---I repented, I hated myself, but..." Patel went on. "I started telling myself it was the only clue to find his killer. The Shinigami who got me into the academy told me that if a friend found his Zanpakuto after he died, then he'd want them to pick it up and avenge him, that this sword would achieve nothing without me." Patel explains, though he does not touch the frayed handle of his Zanpakuto.

It's hard to say whether that Zanpakuto has such a grim nature because of its original owner, or Patel's own inner grievances... "-I could be patient, do what I can and let the days go by, but am I really living up to my original goal if I do that? To find my friend's killer and be a Shinigami in his place? No, I should be willing to gamble my life even if for but a single lesson." Patel explained; there's a resignation and self-loathing about him, but also a kind of unconditional love he bore towards his perceived duties.

How could Patel explain his raison detre in as few words as possible?- "Repentance, justice, obligation---I need to grow as a Shinigami to achieve these." He explained, hoping that was succinct enough. "I am most drawn to Kido, and my Shikai seems completely devoted to the art. I decided that's what I needed to pursue. But once you know the basics---if you don't have connections, wealth or noble status, you can't find anyone to teach you. Any kind of high-level Kido in Seireitei's archives requires rank or at least permission to access. I had to do something drastic; had I have only asked you to teach me, would we have met again today?" Patel asks, finishing with his own question.