Flowers are for the living.
The ground was bare. Only a slight hump in the dark soil gave indication to the girl buried there. Not girl, he thought, bending over a blackened bush, leaves crackling and brittle from the Cero that had scorched it, Soul reaper. His white fingers plucked a single rose, the blossom newly opened when the searing heat had burnt the air, preserving every fold and papery petal, was held carefully in his long fingers. A tiny drop of crimson beaded on his thumb pad, unflinchingly he denuded the stem of charcoaled razor leaves, letting them flutter to the ground like black feathers.
Singularly he crossed then, the once prized gardens and sandy pond of the Kuchiki Manor. The house stood like a sentinel, abandoned, partially razed, and occasionally destroyed more by foul hands and awry Cero blasts. He looked at the stone bridge, underside cracked, dry stalks growing up between the gaps. The wind sighed, caressing his white cheek marred with its Cyan lines, his expression forever stuck in melancholy reminiscence. His green eyes closed and he took the path, beaten down by flat stones, placed at his command.
It ended up a higher hill, flattening out into a small clearing. From there if he bothered to look out, he could see the distant spires of the walled city: Seireitei. It still retained some of its majesty though the closer one got to the tall buildings and wall; the more the evident destruction became apparent. Seireitei was no more. The world of the Soul reapers was a deserted wasteland. Aizen and his army had devastated that world and were laying waste to the world of the living.
But to the black-haired Arrancar pacing up to the mound of earth, time stood still. He approached it, lying with a light sigh from deep in his chest, the burnt rose. He didn't wish for things to be different. He knew things would not change no matter how one may wish for it. He was a realist; he understood she had died, being in a sense already dead. Yet he paid homage to the single reaper whom had a grave, her memory it cannot be said in his heart but in his recollections of her, few though they were and faint though the admiration they aroused.
Admiration?
Yes, admiration. For Ulquiorra Schiffer could not believe in the existence of a heart, no matter how much the trash went on and on about it. He did not love the Soulreaper buried so many months ago beneath the dark soil, nor did he feel remorse at her passing. Her body, limp and drying blood on her face had only earned a cursory glance from him. Many Soul reapers had died that first day and his comrades were still slaughtering many more.
He had continued on past her body, onto the next battle with only the slightest suggestion of discontent darkening his brow. All day he thought and thought of strategies, his sword slashing, Cero blasts thundering beside him but a tiny worry. The smallest thought permeated his absorbed reflections; the thought of her violet orbs softening in a moment caught unknown by her. The pure icy power exuded from the white bladed sword of hers, which stirred something. Buried deep inside. Lost he'd once thought but tapped faintly by her.
He didn't feel. He knew that already. When evening began to fall over the world of the reapers, he went back to gather up her body. No one noticed his absence the short while it took for the Fraccion he'd summoned to dig a suitable hole in the farthest point on the Kuchiki estate. Stark had killed her brother earlier that day so Ulquiorra had little fear of trespassing on the Noble's land.
No words were spoken when he laid her in. Her sword, he'd sheathed and placed it in beside her. He glanced at her shuteyes and single raven lock hanging onto her face. Peaceful, he thought, was how she looked. Quietly the pair of Fraccion recovered the hole, burying her from sight. Ulquiorra didn't glance back once to that lonely hill not as he walked down, his hands faintly cold in his pockets. Noticeably a tiny drop dotted his cheek, brushing it away irritably he concluded the dew was falling. Heavily, he assumed with annoyance, finding more wetting his face.
At this moment, he simply regained his feet. His eyes glancing down to the offering, narrowing in the corners as though stifling something inside but that supposition was folly. Ulquiorra Schiffer did not feel. Did not want to understand the mild ache only asserting itself when he stood by the lonely grave. Where did Soul reapers go after they died? He wondered, for her sake he only wished she had found her brother. He did not want her lonely.
His sandals crushed the brittle grass, his gaze unwavering before him did not fail to miss the familiar tall shape and shock of teal hair standing at the bottom of the hill. Grimmjow. He continued on past this nuisance, a thorn in his side for years. The Sexta whispered something almost inaudible as the Cuatro went by him. Two words: "I'm sorry."
Ulquiorra did not turn his head, though his charcoal lips moved, "for what?"
"For killing her."
***Finis***
AN: sad…sorry about that. I was in a bit of a melancholy mood when I came up with this. Please review.