Title: No Rest For the Wicked
Author: Ephemeral-Rainfall
Summary: A bundle of forget-me-nots is tossed harshly at the base of the gravestone. Cyan eyes of the same hue catch his gaze. "That's Italian bugloss," Grimmjow lies. Ulquiorra nods. He hasn't forgotten either.
A/N: Taken from the Die Into Grey drabbles I wrote because it got too long. Retrospection.
Pairing: Open to interpretation
Beta: Burning November (so many coconuts to u)
#19—Grave
Aizen has sent the two of them to the living world to an outlandish, remote town tucked deep into the granatic eastern recesses of the Pyrenees. Grimmjow rolls his eyes and snorts, shoulders rolled forward in arrogant irritation. He maintains his hunched posture during the entire trip, and Ulquiorra wisely does not comment on the fiercely serrated pockets of reiatsu that spike to life beneath his feet, abnormally aggressive even for one of the Sexta's temperament.
No sooner has the garganta yawned its gaping maw than the more dissonant Espada vanishes, gone off to God-knows-where.
Ulquiorra shakes his head and continues on their assignment, alone.
As the sun is setting and the task is finished, he knows exactly where to find the other.
His feet hover centimeters above the ashen ground, more from reverence than revulsion. There are snowy morning glories and periwinkle rock cress threading through the bleak canvas of grayed soil, darkened by his shadow. In little factions they stand firm but cowed by vast expanses of nothing, stripped and rent by the spiteful shriek of seasonal siroccos. Distantly, he pities their futile plight.
There is a single upright stone, pockmarked and pigeonholed by twin batterings of age and acid rain, situated squarely in the largest patch of deadened ground. It has been forced shallow inches into the unwilling soil, indolently reemerging as the rejecting earth paints a watermark in hesitant layers, a grayscale sunset to forecast the eventual complete dislodgment of the marker.
It is piteous how even softhearted nature seems to decline meager peace for this hallowed place. There are not bones beneath the soil, yet nature recoils at the very conception of commemoration.
There will be no rest for the wicked.
Pitiable.
There is a presence at his back. Without turning, he moves to the side to allow the other by. Dove-white trumpet petals that he had been so meticulous to spare are ground to nothing under the brusque footsteps of his companion.
He says nothing.
A bundle of forget-me-nots is tossed harshly at the base of the gravestone.
Cyan eyes of the same hue catch his gaze.
"That's Italian bugloss," Grimmjow lies.
Ulquiorra nods.
He hasn't forgotten either.
~Fin~
A/N: I'll leave it up to you to decide whose grave it is. Please review! :D (The drabble set this was taken from will be up soon, depending on response.)
