I do not own Bleach or the poem 'Oh Captain! My Captain!' Those belong to Tite Kubo and Walt Whitman, respectively.
They turned their backs to the battlefield, their goal—only halfway—met. The white haired man silently pleaded with his leader, begged, to finish them off. Regain their honor. The tall, bearded man remained silent for a few moments before turning his back on the fallen Shinigami and walking away.
"Let us go, Haschwald."
Juha Bach knew that his subordinate wouldn't be foolish enough to go against his orders. The grasp of a hand on his ankle snapped him out of his personal reflection and he turned around.
"Such arrogance," he mused humorously as he swiftly cut off the hand that was clasped to his leg. Yamamoto still thought that the battle was not lost—he couldn't accept his death with honor, even while he lay defeated.
"Look at you, dying on the ground like a dog. Still thinking that you would be able to defeat me as you lay helpless on the ground," he began in a strong, yet quiet tone. The dust had just begun to settle around the battlefield. Soon the whole Soul Society would see the fate of the immortal warrior that was their commander. "The Soul Society died a millennia ago, along with us…"
After further belittling the fallen man about the failures that he was too proud to admit of, Bach thought it would be fitting to end the battle with a poem. Nothing too extravagant, just something that was well known in the World of the Living. Not that the heathens who lived in the afterlife would know anything of it…
"O Captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done!" he began in a gentle, mocking tone as he placed a foot on top of Yamamoto's head, appearing to make the once indomitable captain look weak, "The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought was won!"
"Your Majesty-" Haschwald muttered, but the words quickly died in his throat. Master had wanted this for a millennia. Disturbing him now would only turn the hate onto him.
"…But O heart! Heart! Heart! O bleeding drops of red," he continued still with a straight face, the surge of elation in his heart could be expressed on his visage no longer. He pointed on finger at the slightly unconscious Yamamoto, charging up a single beam of energy. "Where on the deck my Captain lies…" he released the beam of energy just as the life began to fade out of the eyes of the warrior.
"…fallen cold and dead…"
The battle had been lost, but not the war. The Soul Society would rise once more to vanquish the Quincy foe.
She stood in front of the large window in her division, gazing out upon the casualties of the battle. Many men had been lost today, but she was well aware of that. It had been a necessary measure—a precaution—as much as she didn't want to admit it.
Her duty no longer remained with healing the injured. Past skills and habits must be reawakened in order to assure the Soul Society victory against the Quincy foe. Yamamoto-sotaicho made sure that she was aware that she must go back to her past lifestyle.
The lifestyle she has suppressed for centuries.
The sun had just begun its descent and the moon had just begun to take its place. For now, they would retreat—treat the wounded and bury the dead—it was the only thing they could do now.
For the captain had fallen cold and dead.
Click.
Retsu Unohana needn't turn around to see who had walked into her office without permission. "Isane." She whispered without turning around, still gazing up at the moon.
"They've started to admit the wounded and-" Her voice broke and she swallowed deeply, "they've taken up the dead." She paused, hoping for a little something—anything—to wrench her out of this hopelessness, this despondency…
Silence.
"Not one soldier was taken into the barracks during the battle!" she cried out emotionally, tears flowing like rivers down her russet cheeks, but Unohana dared not to turn around. "Why—why! Why did we remain here? Much more lives could have been saved if-"
"Isane."
The tall woman paused fearfully, dreading the impeding punishment. She was about to throw herself on the ground and apologize for her insubordination, but Unohana interrupted her.
"You must not speak so freely based on your emotions," the sagely healer began in a level tone, still facing the window, her feelings essentially imperceptible through her voice. "Yamamoto-sotaicho ordered the 4th Division to remain in our barracks, away from the heat of battle."
"I am aware that you do not need me to explain as to why we must avoid being controlled by our emotions," she continued softly, the compassion could now be heard in her voice.
"Do not cry, for this was Yamamoto-sotaicho's final request."
Her eyes widened in shock, she felt so foolish! Her captain wanted to save as many lives as she could, but orders came first. The 4th Division's creed explicably states that they must follow the Head Captain's orders—no matter what the circumstances were.
She silently excused herself with a bow—Unohana didn't need to look at her-and returned to the main floor to carry out her duties, just as she was ordered to.
A few moments later, she finally sat down at her desk and clasped her hands together; staring emptily at the medical files in front of her. The man she looked up to—who saved her from a life of terror—was gone.
There was no body left to bury.
The steady clang of the bells outside signaled that there would soon be a captain's meeting. The first meeting without the aged warrior.
"O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells! Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills," she uttered quietly to herself in a singsong voice. She hadn't been to the World of the Living in many centuries, but this was one of her favorite human works-a past lieutenant gave her a small book.
"For you the bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding…" She began to reflect on some of the past memories that they had shared together. They were not romantically attached—oh no- but they admired each other. A level above standard leader-subordinate respect.
The Soul Society shall stand together; the loss of the greatest warrior who ever lived shall not hinder the development of the next generation. Soon, her time will be up as well; the brightly lit torch must be passed. "Here Captain! Dear Father! This arm beneath your head!"
She stood up and walked smoothly toward the door of her office, to the meeting that would probably decide who shall take on the seat of Head Captain. Before leaving, she allowed herself a moment-a fraction of a moment-to mourn her beloved Head Captain. A single tear—not one more—was shed, and yet was quickly wiped away.
"It is some dream that on the deck. You've fallen cold and dead."
He had been staring at the parchment note for quite a while now, it had been dusk when he opened it and now it was around midnight, he guessed. Glancing up at the sky, he yawned and rubbed his eyes. He was hoping that the title wasn't going to be passed down to him, but he was the best candidate here. Or perhaps, he was the safest pick. Jushiro's illness hadn't gotten better or worse-a wild card factor that the Soul Society wasn't willing to bet on. Unohana had other duties to attend to-some that didn't involve healing.
A rap on the door snapped him out of his reverie—he knew who it was, but just didn't have the voice to beckon them in.
"I'm coming in," a feminine voice uttered strongly as she door was eased open and she walked in. She knew there was something wrong; her captain would always greet her with that silly pet name. But he was silent and brooding, something was wrong—besides the obvious.
"You could have at least answered me, taicho," she reprimanded him pointedly before shutting the door behind her. She had a feeling that she was going to receive some bad news.
"This may be the last time we meet," he said, ignoring her reprimand. Turning around, he held up the parchment paper. The paper had been sent from Central 46, appointing him to be the Sotaicho of the Gotei 13 and….
…it was effective immediately.
She remained silent, her lips were pursed and her eyes narrowed. Of course, she was anticipating this for some time now. It was only a matter of time…
"Sorry," he said simply before turning back around to gaze at the moon. "It was…unavoidable. I couldn't—"
"No, it's…alright." She interjected, attempting to alleviate the pressure. "It is your duty, sacrifices must be made," she backed up slowly to the door and twisted the handle. "I'll…see you in the morning," she whispered almost silently before shutting the door behind her.
He sighed heavily as the door clicked loudly. Why did the old man have to go so quickly? Though he knew he was next in line to take up the mantle as commander, he wasn't ready so soon…
"My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still," he recited to himself as he tossed his sakkat haphazardly across the room. "My father does not feel my arm; he has no pulse or will."
Digging around in his desk drawer, he produced a single bottle of sake and took a long draught of it before sighing. Yamamoto hated alcohol with a burning passion, claiming that it was the source of all evil and clouded one's judgment—and Kyoraku's habits not only supported his claim, it made him have half a mind to ban alcoholic drinks in the Seireitei.
"The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done." They weren't out of the woods yet, even though the Quincy had retreated off into some unknown realm, they were still in danger. That was why it was vital for them to take advantage of the time they had, use the strength they had left to counterattack.
That was why he was appointed.
"From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores and ring O bells!"
Not even a second later, the brassy sound of the bells brought him out of his reflection; it was time for the captain's meeting. The first of which he will be in charge. In charge of hundreds of Shinigami—those who would look to him for guidance in this troubling time.
Wearily, he padded over to where his sakkat lie and placed it on top of his head. He was almost certain that Yama-ji would tell him to get rid of it since it made the position of Sotaicho look like a joke. "But I with mournful tread," he muttered aloud, blinking back tears that he refused to shed for the man would was like a second father to him. "Walk the deck my Captain lies."
"Fallen cold and dead."
Well, after reading the poem 'O Captain! My Captain!' by Walt Whitman in my English class, something just told me to go ahead and relate it to the death of Yamamoto and how certain people in Bleach would view it. Thanks for reading and review!