Bleach: Kishou Arima

Arima walked silently through the forested land, a place that felt out of place amidst the structured chaos of the Seireitei.

Tall trees loomed overhead, their branches swaying gently in the wind, while patches of sunlight danced across the forest floor.

The air here was different—quieter, untouched, as though time itself hesitated to intrude on this place.

This was his home.

As he walked, his footsteps soundless against the earth, a deer emerged from behind a cluster of trees.

It stood still, its large, gentle eyes meeting Arima's cold gaze without fear.

He paused, kneeling slightly to extend his hand.

His fingers ran lightly along the animal's head, his touch careful and precise, yet his face remained impassive, emotionless.

From his coat, he pulled out a small packet of treats—carefully wrapped, as though prepared for this very moment.

He placed one in front of the deer, which eagerly snatched it up, chewing with satisfaction before bouncing away deeper into the trees.

Arima watched it leave, his gaze lingering for a heartbeat longer before he continued walking.

The path to his home was adorned with clusters of white lilies and wisteria flowers, their pale blooms swaying like delicate ghosts in the wind.

The vibrant yet serene beauty stood in sharp contrast to the man who walked among them.

Birds chirped softly overhead, and small animals peeked curiously from the underbrush as he passed.

Despite his cold and fearsome reputation, they were drawn to him—perhaps sensing the silent stillness that dwelled within.

At last, he reached his home, a traditional structure nestled quietly in the heart of the forest.

Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of cooking.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, immediately greeted by the warmth of the house and the quiet hum of activity.

In the kitchen stood Yachiru Unohana, clad in an apron, her long hair tied back as she stirred a pot of simmering food.

The smile that adorned her face was soft but genuine as she turned toward him.

"Welcome home," she said gently, as though the words were reserved solely for him.

She wiped her hands on her apron, walking over to him and reaching up to kiss him lightly in greeting.

The gesture was natural, practiced, though Arima's face remained stoic, unchanged. Still, he allowed it, as he always did.

"Let me take that," Unohana said, pulling his white coat from his shoulders.

Her movements were precise and practiced, yet still tender.

She glanced briefly at the blood-stained hem, but her expression didn't falter.

Blood was no stranger in their lives.

Arima remained silent as he let her tend to him, his eyes scanning the familiar face of his wife.

Their relationship was a peculiar one, woven from violence and inevitability.

Long ago, when the clans had offered Unohana to him in marriage, she had resisted, attempting to escape the fate imposed upon her.

But Arima had paid her rebellion little mind.

He had no interest in love or companionship, fully aware of the clans' true intent: More leverage to control him or a potential replacement for the himself.

It was not love that had brought them together.

She had tried to kill him.

Their clash had been brutal—Arima had beaten her senseless, his overwhelming skill leaving her with no chance.

But somewhere in the moments of violence and blood, something had shifted.

For her, the line between admiration and obsession had blurred, and in the aftermath of defeat, she had found herself obsessed with him in ways she could not explain.

For Arima, the matter had been simple.

And so they remained, bound by a union that was neither forced nor entirely voluntary.

Theirs was not a love born of tenderness, but of understanding—a silent acceptance of who the other truly was.

Unohana turned back to the kitchen, her voice breaking the silence. "Dinner will be ready soon. Go wash up."

Arima stood for a moment longer, watching her work.

Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared down the hall, his steps as quiet as the forest outside.

Here, in the sanctuary of their home, time felt different.

For now, the White Reaper was not a harbinger of death, nor a weapon.

---

Some time later

The dining room was quiet, save for the faint clink of utensils against ceramic plates.

Arima sat in his usual place, his posture impossibly straight, his gaze distant even as he ate. Across from him sat Unohana, her expression calm yet pensive as she studied him.

"Do you like it?" she finally asked, her voice soft but deliberate, as though breaking the silence took effort.

Arima's gaze lifted momentarily to meet hers, his silver hair catching the dim glow of the lanterns above.

His expression remained blank, unreadable—unshakable as always. "Brilliant as always," he replied in his monotone voice, placing his utensil neatly down on the table.

The words, spoken without inflection, seemed to settle heavily between them.

Unohana's lips curled into a small, sad smile, her hands pausing mid-movement as she stared at her plate.

"It really has gotten this bad, huh?" she murmured softly, though her voice carried the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions.

Arima said nothing, his pale eyes fixed somewhere beyond her, as though he were staring through the walls of the room, through the forest outside, at some distant horizon that no one else could see.

Unohana's heart ached—not because of his silence, but because she understood.

She was one of the very few who knew the truth, who knew what Arima truly was.

An unattainable pinnacle to everyone else in Soul Society, but to her, he was a man slowly and inexorably crumbling from within.

A death stretched across centuries—agonizing, inevitable, and yet still delayed by sheer force of his will.

She placed her utensil down quietly and looked at him.

Her eyes traced the subtle hollowness around his gaze, the way his movements, while precise, seemed heavier than they had in the past. She had noticed it all.

"You've lost more, haven't you?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Arima was still.

For a long moment, the silence between them was suffocating.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally, his tone unchanging.

But to Unohana, it mattered.

She thought back to the moment, many years ago, when she first realized something was wrong.

It had been soon after their wedding when she watched him struggle to distinguish colors.

She'd questioned him, and Arima, with his usual blunt honesty, revealed that he had lost the ability to perceive color long ago.

That moment had been the first crack in the illusion of his invincibility.

Over the years, she watched the cracks widen.

His senses were slowly failing him, piece by piece, as though his very existence could no longer be held together.

And now…

"The food was unsalted," she said softly, observing him closely.

Arima blinked once, slow and deliberate, his face betraying nothing. "I didn't notice," he admitted.

The words hit her harder than they should have.

This—his favorite dish, one that she had prepared countless times over the years—should have been unmistakable.

Yet now, his inability to recognize something as fundamental as taste confirmed what she feared.

His ailments, countless as they were, were taking more from him.

Unohana's hand tightened subtly in her lap.

Over centuries, she had mastered every healing technique available to her, had scoured knowledge both known and forbidden to find a way to save him.

But with every year that passed, she saw the truth more clearly—there was no saving Arima.

His condition was beyond saving.

And yet, he lived.

Even in his broken state, his sheer power remained unattainable—a contradiction of nature itself.

"Arima," she said softly, reaching across the table to place her hand lightly over his.

For a moment, his gaze shifted to their hands.

His fingers, cold and pale as ever, twitched slightly beneath hers.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, though she already knew his answer.

Arima's voice was low, unfeeling. "Pain is irrelevant."

Unohana smiled faintly, though her heart twisted.

She knew he believed his own words, and that was perhaps what made it all the more unbearable.

"You should rest," she said gently. "At least for tonight . I'll join you after cleaning up."

Arima gave a small nod, rising to his feet with the same unwavering grace he always carried.

Unohana remained seated, her gaze lingering on his empty plate.

It really has gotten this bad…

As she sat there alone, she couldn't help but think back to the early days of their strange union as tears gathered in her eyes.

She had loved him then—still loved him—not because he was the White Reaper, but because she had glimpsed the man beneath the title.

And now, she was one of the very few witnesses to his slow, inevitable fall.

"I'll save you," she whispered softly to herself, though the words felt hollow.

Because deep down, she knew—there was no saving a man who had been dying since the day he was born.

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Stones and Reviews please