Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost (1923)

It had been nearly a year since Orihime had returned from Hueco Mundo to her life of bean paste dinners, studious school days, and lazy afternoons.

A couple months after her return she had gotten a part time job as a cashier at a local bakery. Not because she desperately needed money, but because she could no longer bear the pitying looks and awkward silences of her friends. The days where they laughed easily together after school seemed so long ago and her new job was a convenient excuse to escape the guilt they all shared, and yet would do anything to avoid speaking about. Somehow her precious nakama who had been her saviors had changed into people she no longer knew, though she suspected it was really her who had changed. Whenever they were together in a group Rukia and Tatsuki would often glance at each other when they thought she wasn't looking. She knew what they both suspected, but she refused to reveal much of anything to anyone about her time in Las Noches with her stoic captor, besides that she was well fed and well looked after.

Several downy snowflakes fell onto her heavy winter skirt. Looking up she noticed two businessmen shifting uncomfortably on their feet in the cold while waiting for the same bus that she was. Secretly she wished that she was captain of a ship braving the Bermuda Triangle with warm breezes caressing her legs, or an amazing super double agent Russian spy wearing warm fur-lined pants instead of the skirt that was required as part of her school uniform year-round. Shifting her seat on the frigid bus stop bench she observed the brightness of the quickly melting flakes against the dark backdrop of the skirt. The soft and yellowing green of a tenacious weed growing from a crack in the pavement made her think of emerald eyes and pale skin the color of meringue. She had always wondered if his skin tasted like meringue as well. Overly sweet and overly crisp. Or maybe he would taste like rice. Rice was white too after all. 'Foolishness'. A stray tear gathered on her lashes. Reaching up with the cuff of her jacket she scrubbed away the urge to sob. Her lip trembled. It wasn't fair. She never even got to say goodbye. There was no conclusion, no closure. She didn't get to do, or say, or ask, half the things she had wanted to. She hadn't even been able to reach his hand before it had crumbled away from her and become lost in the wind. It amazed her how many tears she had shed. It wasn't as if he had been particularly kind to her.

Rukia and Tatsuki secretly thought she was suffering from an advanced case of Stockholm syndrome and that Ulquiorra had possibly used her as some sort of sex slave. Ishida knew of their suspicions and assumed they were at least close to the truth. They were wrong. Nothing untoward had happened to her in Hueco Mundo, except for one utterly unpleasant grope from the tall, leering Espada, Nnoitra. Ulquiorra had certainly never laid a hand upon her. The times they had touched had been brief and gentle. The longest their skin had made contact was when she had slapped him in anger. His iron-hard skin had instantly bruised her hand, bringing tears to her eyes. Most of their touches had not been touches at all, but mere brushes of air against skin; the movement of a cool hand a little too close for comfort, causing the air near her fingers to stir and caress her palm.

The businessmen in their neatly pressed suits with matching black coats and ties were gone. She had missed the bus that would have taken her to her workplace. Akiyama's Bakery and Patisserie. Akiyama Keiko and her husband Masaru owned and worked the shop. Masaru baked the breads and desserts while Keiko usually worked with the customers, taking orders and such. Orihime had been hired along with a young enthusiastic baker named Hideki when the Patisserie had experience a boom in popularity, as well as the expectation of a long anticipated baby for Keiko and Masaru.

A sigh turned into a puff of vapor in the chilled air. All three of the bakery's meager staff would be worried about her, but maybe missing one day wasn't so bad. Brushing the small amount of accumulated snow off her skirt and stretching the stiffness out of her legs, she stood and began slowly meandering down the sidewalk.

She knew where her legs would take her. Whenever she was in a melancholy or despondent mood there were only two places she went. Before her time is Las Noches she had only gone to one place; her brother's shrine inside of her small apartment that often felt far too big for only one person. Today, however, she wasn't going to see her brother.

The barren branches of the trees in the park were dark and drear against the stolid grey of the winter sky. Civil workers had filled in the crater that had been deemed a hazard to park-goers. But she could still tell that this was where it had been, once upon a time. The park was devoid of people due to the chill and the damp of the season. Leaving her free to crouch in the snow and carve out as many silly pictures as she wished into the thin layer of undisturbed snow without an audience. The slow, rhythmic crunching of snow behind her and the silence that ensued when the steps halted caused her to tense reflexively. She knew it was Tatsuki. Tatsuki always did this. It was as annoying as it was endearing. She knew the dark haired girl only did it out of love and a desire to protect her. But it could be so absolutely infuriating at times when she simply desired to be alone.

"Tatsuki, I know it's you." Oddly only silence replied to the orange haired girl. Usually Tatsuki would at least shift around in a self-conscious, semi-guilty way.

"Tatsuki!!!"

"My name isn't Tatsuki, woman."

She gasped. It wasn't possible. It had to be someone playing an awfully cruel joke. He had disintegrated into the finest of dusts before her very eyes. She had tried in vain for so very long to collect all she could of the fine powder and sew it back together with her so-called godly powers. But even the best seamstress can't thread a needle with air or use the moon for a sewing machine. The particles and ash that had once been Ulquiorra had proved impossible to put back together again. It had been a classic case of Humpty-Dumpty, and all her best efforts hadn't been enough to put her warden back together again.

Any faith she had ever had in her powers had vanished that day.

One gasp turned into two and she quickly began heading down the path toward a full on hysterical fit. She refused to look behind her at what had to be the product of her finally mad mind.

"Woman." A cool hand that felt warm in comparison to the frigid winter air gently grasped her shoulder and spun her around. A hand came up and brushed against her chin, forcing her to look up.

"Stop hyperventilating, woman. So that I may speak to you."

The nightmarish appearance of his second release startled her. It was him, but he looked…strange. Well, stranger than his already strange hollow self, if that were possible. There was a sort of odd transparency to him. He looked like he had been worn thin in places, like an old rag. His extremities appeared paper-thin and both his left arm and leg were merely spindle-like fragments just vaguely reminiscent of the parts they were supposed to be. His left horn was missing entirely, giving him an oddly lopsided look.

"Woman, you have the rest of my body." She was dumbfounded. What on earth was he talking about?

"W-what? I don't understand. How could I-?"

"The ash."

"I still don't understand. I-I'm so sorry. I couldn't bring you back. I tried." Her hand fluttered up to press over her mouth in an attempt to stem a tide of oncoming tears. He watched her stoically, as apathetic as he had always been.

"I know." His voice was monotonous, yet a barely-there flicker of sympathy seemed to pass across his face.

"Then how are you here? Now?" Her voice felt impossibly small.

"That is irrelevant at this time. I require the ash you collected to regenerate the remainder of my limbs."

Oh. Oh no. When she had been unable to fix him she had taken the desperately collected tiny pile of dust and brushed as much as she could into her skirt, creating a pouch in the white fabric to carry his ashes. After returning to her home she had dug around in her kitchen cabinets and managed to pull out an old pickle jar. She had thoroughly washed and dried the jar before funneling all the ash she could into the small glass container that now acted as an urn sitting next to her brother's photo.

She suddenly felt incredibly guilty and selfish.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes took on an inquisitive look."What for?"

"If- if I hadn't taken your . . . it . . . you would have been able to fully heal yourself. Right?"

"That is inconsequential. What has passed is done."

She reluctantly gave a small nod of acquiescence.

"Inoue Orihime."

"Yes?"

"It is best if we go now before your - friends - decide to show up. I am surprised that they have not shown up to protect you already." He flicked his eyes once around the deserted park before returning them to the young woman. Quickly releasing her chin from his thin, half-formed, needle-like fingers, he began walking in the direction of her apartment.

"Come."

She stumbled forward a few steps before collecting herself and jogging after him to catch up with his swift pace.

"Why didn't you just take it?" His eyes turned toward her though he still faced forward. "Your ashes, I mean." She clarified, as she jogged along beside him. He made a half-grunted sound that sounded quite a bit like 'ah', but she couldn't be sure.

"You seemed emotionally . . . attached to it. I did not wish to alarm you by taking it without your consent."

"Oh." She blushed. Her eyes strayed to his malformed hand that dangled listlessly at his side since he currently lacked pockets in which to put them. Tentatively she reached her own hand out and lightly grasped his. He abruptly stopped and turned to face her, studying her shy, apprehensive, and flushed face for a few seconds before simply continuing on. His spindly fingers that felt stiff and thin as sticks closing over, and lacing, their clasped hands.

A comfortable silence settled over the pair.

AN: I'm not sure when I'll find time to continue this fic, but if you have any ideas where you want this to go or what you want to see happen please review. You never know. I just may use it. (Actually, I need all the ideas you can give me! Please I'm beggin' ya!!! I have no idea what to write!!! *sobs*)

P.S. Please!!! If you see any plot holes or things that make absolutely no sense, TELL ME!!! I have a bad habit of believing people can read my mind.

PREVIEW:

The use of sonido on his weak and overtaxed body left him winded and feeling the disappointing lack of spiritual particles in the atmosphere of the human world. He felt staggeringly hungry. In his arms the girl was close, too close and naively oblivious to the danger she was in. Burying his face in her hair he inhaled deeply. She smelled extraordinarily good. Good enough to eat. She was rambling on about their almost encounter with the Quincy boy, but he couldn't concentrate on her words. The overpowering need for sustenance was taking a toll on his mind.

His lack of control was infuriating. He was a Vasto Lorde, not some sub-gillian Menos.

"DAMN YOU ULQUIORRA!"For once Ulquiorra was glad to see the Shinigami representative Kurosaki Ichigo. The Quincy boy was with him as well as the shinigami Kuchiki Rukia and the Soul Society outcasts Urahara Kisuke and Shihoin Yoruichi. He inhaled her scent one last time, then gently set her down on the rooftop beside him.