Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.
The princess was strong. She was brave. She stood in front of the monster, hands drawn back and ready to fight. She would defend her country and—
Drop. Drip. Drop. Drip.
The enemy, so melancholy, so lonely, softened the kind maiden's heart. Such a poor girl she was, such a terribly weak burden. "Why do you cry?" She asked.
He replied, "Why do you feel?"
Such a strange enemy. Such a heartless warrior.
Such a foolish girl. Such a kindhearted healer.
What was to–
Drip. Drip. Drip.
He was just a man. Forsaken, abused. His heart unbeating and nonexistent.
She was just a woman. Hopeful, loving. Her heart too large and much too forgiving.
He reached for her, their fingers brushed.
Then he was gone and.
Drop. Drop.
She was not a princess. She was not the poor maiden. She was Orihime Inoue.
He was not a monster. He was not the enemy. He was Ulquiorra Schiffer.
And their story ended before it began.
Drip.
What I meant by 'He was not the enemy.' was, of course, he was no longer her enemy as far as she was concerned.
