DISCLAIMER: I do not own Bleach. Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo. And not to Halibel, who actually LIVES there. Ohhh, the irony...

BETA'D by Rayna Lissesul. Go on, check out her work. I can wait. Oh, and senpai? A certain Espada wearing nothing but a bow-tie...

White.

White on black, that was all she could see, all she could see for miles. The pure, endless sand and sky, the desert. The only color in the world she refused to let herself see was the red: the pool of red under her, the red footprints that led to another pool a hundred or so yards back.

She could never allow herself to see the red. If she acknowledged the red, it was all over.

Slowly, she got up and staggered forward another hundred yards, her legs eventually giving out again and sending her crashing to the ground. The sand was caked on her wounds, thick and stained crimson, worked through her hair from how many times she'd been sent to the ground. She could still remember him… the mutilated skin of her wrists digging into the cuffs as she struggled under him, the scrap of fabric he was using as a gag soaked through with tears and saliva and still she was trying to scream around it, his breath hot against her face, his voice like smooth fire.

"Don't you want me, Menoly?" His eyes had shone in the moonlight and she'd wondered why she had ever loved him, even from afar. "Your sister… your twin, she wants me, doesn't she? And you do, too…"

She had shaken her head, screamed. He hadn't listened. He hadn't listened at all. Her benevolent, kind ruler… her king… her sovereign… he had been no better than any other man. He'd left her so close to broken, so close to taken it was terrifying, left her barely whole to bleed into the sand from the wounds he'd inflicted trying to wrestle her down.

But she hadn't let him leave her there. She'd struggled up, near-impossible with her hands bound, and staggered in the direction she thought was home. She'd tried so hard. But even now, if she let herself see the red, she knew that the first pool would still be there in sight; that she hadn't gotten anywhere. And there was no way she was getting home, but she wasn't going to die where he'd left her, either. Now here she was, a second puddle of blood forming beneath her. She didn't need to block it out anymore. She could see it for what it was: blood, rich and vibrant, spilled all over the pristine white desert sands.

Menoly knew she was going to die here. She had known ever since she'd felt the blood coursing down her sides, too freely to recover. She would die here, forgotten, and the only person who might remember knew she would die here. Loly was engrossed in her new life with Di-Roy, her pregnancy taking chief priority. No, she wasn't going to be remembered.

The pain was starting to lessen. She used the last of her energy to turn over, staring up at the starless, infinite black sky. Slowly, her stare became sightless, her mind slowed and then ground to a halt. And then, finally, from the depths of her mind, the places she guarded even from herself, there welled up the face of the one person who would mourn. She could remember him so perfectly: his beautiful cool eyes, his narrow, lithe build and silky alabaster skin. The way he held her at night. The day they'd met, by chance, in the desert, at a quiet little spot near the canyon that was perfect for thinking.

The thought of him brought tears to her eyes. They'd never spoken a word to each other; there had been a tacit understanding from the very start that no words would be needed. They were kindred spirits and they had no use for words; words would only complicate things. So when he'd followed her back to her room late one night, she had welcomed him; she hadn't said a word, only slipped her top off and then turned to find him doing the same.

They had been perfect for each other. They'd needed no words, used none, and even though she never had before, now she regretted that.

Because words would have made it concrete; even one word, one name, a single breath of sound and it wouldn't have been something she could guard; it would have been real, at the front of her mind, true. She felt the tears brim and slip down, turning the sand in her hair to mud. Her throat closed until she could barely breathe.

She would give anything, just to see him one final time…

--|--

He had been training when it happened. He'd felt her energy flair, then begin to slowly drop down to nothing. There was barely time to drop everything and run to where he could feel her, kneeling and shaking his head in fear.

"No…"

This couldn't be happening.

He drew a shaky breath, trying to make it seem real. Her blood… her blood, her life, spilled like so much water, drenching the cold sand in precious ruby. The cold, undeserving sand that would never know how invaluable she was, his jewel, his light...

He suddenly remembered that he'd never said her name, never heard his own name from her. The pain it caused, when before it had been of no importance, was unbearable. He'd been living in a colorless world before her; he had never known anything until he met her except how to fight, what to do when this or that. Shawlong choked on the knowledge that she was too far gone; she wasn't going to come back.

She'd been silent. Just like him, cooler and calmer than the others. She wasn't as much so, able to hold her own and socialize sometimes, but she was like him as well. And he'd known when he'd met her that they were the same. He'd sat down next to her, allowing himself to get used to her as she did for him. They'd gone well together. He'd grown, in time, to like her well enough… and then it had gone even further.

He'd never thought that it could ever go that far with him.

But it had; he'd followed her home, and she him a few times, never speaking, always understanding without words. They'd fit each other so well, bodies moving in rhythm even when they walked, always in synch. It made him wish with so much more urgency that he had spoken; that he'd said even a single word, that he'd done more than hold her when she was hurt. Couldn't he have managed a single word? Would it have been so hard?

Yes. Because he knew very well that if he spoke, he would make it real, and she would feel the same. And then what would happen? Perfection, shattered. Their relationship would become just that, and then eventually it would end. He hadn't had the heart to take that step, to begin the end. He'd wanted things to stay the way they were.

So he'd never said anything. He'd kept silent, kept the status quo. So had she; they each knew what would happen if they were to speak to eachother.

But now… now he couldn't imagine the atrocity of never speaking to this woman, this person who he would dare to say he loved. He'd never told her… he had to tell her. He had to make her hear it, make her understand.

…But what would he do then? Get up and go back to Las Noches? There was no life for him there. There was nothing. It was like the desert here: the only color in the entire world, for him, had come from her. And now that color was nearly gone.

He took out his sword, turning the blade this way and that, watching it shine in the moonlight. It was a magnificent weapon, of he did say so himself. How ironic that it had saved his life so many times over…

Without another moment's thought, he plunged the weapon deep into his chest, feeling his heart twist and convulse around it. His pain, however, was growing less and less intense by the moment. This was right. This was what needed to be done, and he knew it. He felt his blood flowing freely from the wound, soaking into the sand just like hers had done. He slowly stroked her face, kissing her lips more tenderly than he'd ever bothered to do.

His heart jumped when her eyes regained a spark of life, if only for a tiny moment.

"Menoly…" he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes again as he met her gaze for one last time. "I love you… I love you so much, Menoly…"

Her energy was falling, and falling fast; she could barely think anymore. It took so much energy. But she knew him. She knew Shawlong, knew his words. She was so happy now; his warm blood coursed over her exposed skin, but there wasn't time or energy to feel sad. They were together, in the end, and he loved her…that was all that mattered.

Finally, she managed to choke out a single sentence, all she'd ever needed to say.

"Shawlong…" she whispered, the words thick and shaky. "Shawlong… I love you…too…"

He struggled to position himself over her, protectively, his lips meeting hers in a last long, slow kiss. Whether goodbye or hello, she couldn't be sure. Maybe just simply, I love you.

And then there was nothing more; she felt her eyes stay open, pleading sightlessly with the black, starless sky for salvation, and slowly the last energy drained fromthem both until even their thoughts were nothing more than soft black.