She doesn't tell anyone, never repeating the words echoing in her own mind so persistently.
For days and even weeks, it's not apparent – her decline, that is – to even her closest cohorts. The Thirteenth Division's routines continue without pause, her subordinates obeying her barked orders without complaint as usual. Her voice does not waver as she directs them from afar rather than among the new recruits, but the daily training exercises run smoothly enough that no one really notices her sudden preference for sitting under shade. Her fondness for their sickly Captain is not strange either, so none of the other seated officers really think it odd that she joins him at his therapeutic gardens far more often than before.
Even Renji does not say anything when they meet up for their weekly walks around their old haunts. He allows her to place her beloved cucumber rolls onto his plate with a strange glance, but he accepts her gift unquestioningly. And when he spots the cask hanging by her hip opposite her sword, he assumes it is merely sake she drinks every few hours rather than a painkilling anesthetic.
Only she sees the pallor of her skin, closer to the deadness of a cadaver than the crisp whiteness of midwinter, and the dimming starlight in her eyes.
-oOo-
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