Chapter 4: The Past
I wish to know if you want one more chapter of complete flashback till their wedding or proceed with the present in next chapter.
Earlier i thought of making it in peices from time to time.
I got carried away with this one its almost 2300 words.
[IMAGE OF UNOHANA]
---
Arima awoke earlier than Unohana, the first light of dawn faintly filtering into the quiet room.
Their naked bodies were comfortably wrapped in the soft embrace of the blankets, her form resting peacefully against him.
For a moment, he remained still, his usually distant gaze softened, his expression lighter than it ever was incase of others.
A faint, fleeting smile tugged at his lips.
Despite his deteriorating vision, where the world had dulled into vague silhouettes and muted tones, Unohana's visage remained crystal clear to him.
It was as if his senses, stubborn against his failing "body", had pushed themselves to evolve for the sole purpose of seeing her—memorizing her.
Slowly, he raised his hand and pushed a strand of her now-messy dark hair away from her face.
His fingers traced the curve of her cheek with a tenderness he hadn't allowed himself to express in years.
Cupping her face gently, he observed her features: the slight furrow in her brow, the rise and fall of her breath, the peacefulness she wore when she was completely surrendered in his presence.
His mind began to wander.
Memories surfaced like ghosts, lingering on the edge of his consciousness.
He thought back to their past—back to the day she was first offered to him as a bride.
---
983 Years Ago
The room wasn't the same as Arima's present house , traditional shoji screens casting soft shadows across the polished wooden floor.
Incense drifted lazily through the air, mingling with the weight of unspoken tensions.
Sitting at the head of the room was the Shihouin Clan Head, a figure whose authority carried the weight of one of the five great noble houses.
His words were sharp, formal, and direct as he addressed the two individuals seated before him.
Kishou Arima, sat in his pristine white garb, his back impossibly straight, posture betraying nothing.
Across from him, on her knees in seiza, sat a much younger Yachiru Unohana.
Her raven hair, tied back with precision, framed a face far softer than the one the world would come to know—but her eyes were alive with quiet, boiling rage.
Her gaze remained glued to the floor beneath her, as if staring at anything else would invite the fire in her heart to consume the room.
"The extension of bloodline of the strongest is imperative for the stability of Soul Society," the Shihouin head declared, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were discussing a business arrangement rather than the lives of two people. "You are both unparalleled in strength even if she might be from a lesser known noble family."
Yachiru said nothing.
Her fists clenched against the fabric of her kimono, knuckles pale.
The disdain she radiated was visible, like a storm trapped within the small confines of the room.
Arima, on the other hand, appeared completely unmoved.
His gray, deadpan eyes shifted briefly toward Yachiru, as though observing an artifact.
His voice, when he spoke, was as monotone as always, betraying neither contempt nor enthusiasm.
"I cannot say I have ever been particularly interested in marriage," Arima said, his gaze drifting lazily to the clan head, "but if it is a recommendation from the five great clans, then I will consider it."
Yachiru's head snapped up, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. Arima ignored the venom in her eyes and instead turned his attention fully to her.
For a moment, he studied her face—not with lust, not with pity, but with the same cold indifference that marked every action of his existence.
"However," he continued, "it would be better if I had the chance to know the person I will presumably be spending my life with. Such decisions, after all, require understanding."
Yachiru bit her lip to suppress the sharp retort that threatened to escape.
Her teeth pressed so hard against the skin that she tasted blood.
Understanding? The word felt like mockery, coming from a man who was nothing more than the blade of the nobles—a weapon dressed in white.
"You speak of understanding," she finally said, her voice low and laced with venom, "and yet you have no heart to offer such a thing."
The Shihouin clan head frowned, opening his mouth to scold her for such insolence, but Arima raised his hand—a subtle motion that silenced the room.
"That may be true," Arima replied without hesitation. "I am not someone who loves, nor someone who desires. If you hate me, that is your right."
He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if pondering a puzzle. "But hatred is still understanding, is it not?"
The calm, clinical nature of his words struck Yachiru harder than any blow ever could.
She met his eyes for the first time and saw something unsettling—emptiness.
He wasn't mocking her; he wasn't taunting her.
He was simply speaking the truth, as if he were a machine that operated beyond human emotions.
"You are...Inhuman," she muttered.
"I am practical," he corrected. "If this arrangement is to happen, I ask only that you act as you see fit. Hate me, defy me, it makes no difference to me. I have no expectations of you."
For a long moment, there was silence. The Shihouin head looked between them both, clearly dissatisfied with the outcome of this meeting but unwilling to push further—Arima's presence alone ensured compliance.
Yachiru turned her head away, eyes once again fixed on the floor.
Her hatred still burned, but it was mixed now with confusion and something she couldn't quite name.
Arima rose to his feet, the hem of his white coat brushing against the floor. Before leaving, he looked back at her once more, his expression unchanged.
"If you truly wish to end this arrangement, you may try to kill me," he said evenly.
"That is also an option."
With that, he turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps light but leaving a weight behind.
Yachiru stared after him, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
Kill him? The thought crossed her mind more than once in that moment.
Even if that is simply impossible to do..
---
Three Weeks Later
The moon hung high over Seireitei, its pale glow filtering through the paper-thin windows of Arima's secluded home.
The world outside was silent, a blanket of calm that betrayed the violent intentions stirring within the walls.
Yachiru Unohana moved like a shadow through the dim corridors, her bare feet making no sound against the polished wooden floors.
Her breath was steady, though her heart pounded in her chest.
She had spent the past three weeks living with Arima, observing him, watching for weaknesses.
What unnerved her was the unrelenting monotony of his life—every action was mechanical, precise.
Each day began with him tending to the animals on his land, meditating in the forest, training briefly with his sword, and then… nothing.
He would sit for hours, unmoving, as if the passage of time meant nothing to him.
No man, no matter how strong, could be perfect.
And yet, Kishou Arima felt inhumanly close to it.
But tonight, she would find out for herself.
Yachiru descended into the basement, her hands grazing the rough walls.
She knew what she was looking for—the sword.
She had seen it before, a weapon unlike any other she'd encountered, resting on its pedestal among many others.
Arima had used it once in training, though briefly, showcasing its devastating ability to manipulate thunder.
Her fingers closed around its hilt.
The white four-bladed weapon hummed faintly in her grasp, its weight almost non-existent.
Despite its elegance, the blade felt ominous in her hands, as though it didn't belong to her.
She pushed the feeling aside. Tonight, it would serve her.
---
Arima was seated in the main room when she found him.
His white coat seemed to gleam even in the dim light, his posture still as a statue.
The man had sensed her presence long before she entered, but his eyes remained closed, as if he were waiting for her.
Without a word, Yachiru lunged forward, the four blades of the sword flashing like white lightning.
She swung with the intent to kill, aiming for his neck.
The attack never landed.
A single hand rose, catching the blade mid-swing with two of its fingers.
Yachiru's eyes widened in disbelief as Arima held the weapon effortlessly, his grip unyielding.
His eyes opened, calm and grey, meeting hers with an almost bored expression.
"You're holding it wrong," he said flatly. "Twist the handle on its axis."
"What?" she hissed, pulling the weapon back as her hands trembled.
"If you twist the handle," Arima continued, "it will release a thunder surge using your reiatsu. A poor planning strategy, to not use the weapon's full potential during your ambush."
Her teeth gritted in frustration.
She twisted the handle as instructed. Instantly, the blade sparked to life, a crackle of electric energy pulsing through the room as arcs of thunder rippled across its length.
Yachiru wasted no time; she lunged again, this time thrusting the sword forward with a burst of speed, the weapon discharging violent bolts of energy toward Arima.
He didn't move from his spot.
With a raised finger—one single finger—coated in concentrated reishi, Arima deflected the bolts of thunder as if swatting away flies.
The sound of energy crackling and clashing against his finger resonated through the room, yet his expression remained unshaken.
Yachiru's frustration grew as she unleashed everything the sword had to offer.
She twisted the handle again and again, sending waves of thunder crashing toward him.
Arima remained where he stood, calmly neutralizing every attack with the same finger, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"You've relied on the weapon too much," Arima said. "When that fails, what's left?"
Her eyes narrowed. Fine then.
With a deep breath, Yachiru discarded the use of the weapon's ability, letting the thunder fade into silence.
Now, it was her skill that would speak.
She transitioned into pure swordplay, her form impeccable, every swing delivered with deadly precision.
For a fleeting moment, Arima's gaze seemed to sharpen, as though he was truly seeing her.
The strength she possessed—she was the strongest of her generation within the Unohana clan, a prodigy whose skills surpassed even those of her elders.
But Arima… Arima was still Arima.
He did not strike back.
He did not take the offensive even once. Instead, he met her relentless assault with nothing more than his finger coated in reishi.
The tip of that single digit parried every slash and thrust of her blade, effortlessly redirecting her strikes and forcing her to adjust her angles.
To her horror, the rhythm of the fight revealed a truth she could not deny: no matter how skilled she was, she could not touch him.
Minutes passed, though it felt like hours.
Sweat dripped from Yachiru's brow as her movements began to slow, her breathing ragged.
Her arms burned with exhaustion, but Arima's posture remained perfect, his expression neutral as ever.
Finally, her sword arm faltered, the weapon's tip lowering as her energy ran dry.
She stumbled back, panting heavily, her glare fixed on the man before her.
"Is that all?" Arima asked quietly, though there was no mockery in his tone.
Yachiru's pride ached as she grit her teeth, her knuckles white around the weapon's hilt. "Why… why didn't you fight back?"
Arima looked at her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. "Because I had no reason to."
The words struck her harder than any physical blow.
She dropped the sword, the weapon clattering to the ground as the tension left her body.
Defeated, she fell to her knees, breathing heavily.
Arima approached her, his steps unnaturally silent.
Standing over her, he studied her for a moment before kneeling to pick up the sword she had wielded.
He held it out to her, offering it back.
"You have the potential," he said softly. "But potential means nothing without purpose. Decide what you truly want, Yachiru Unohana, before you raise a blade against me again."
With that, he turned his back on her and walked away, leaving her kneeling in the center of the room, shaken to her core.
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