And last, to make thy drama all complete,
That love and cruelty may mix and meet,
I, thy remorseful torturer, will take
All the Seven Deadly Sins, and from them make
In darkest joy, Seven Knives, cruel-edged and keen,
And like a juggler choosing, O my Queen,
That spot profound whence love and mercy start,
I'll plunge them all within thy panting heart!
-Charles Baudelaire, "To a Madonna"
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Note: I don't use beta readers or show these to anyone before posting. So your reviews are doubly appreciated. Thanks for reading!
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The door opened, bright light streaming out from within. "Ah. Thank you, Ulquiorra."
The speaker flicked back a piece of hair and stood smiling benignly at the young woman on the threshold. He gestured at the expansive courtyard visible behind him. "Come in, Orihime. I've been waiting. Please. After you."
Aizen stepped aside and Orihime walked through the held door.
"Ulquiorra, please wait outside." Orihime turned and looked at the slight figure standing in the dim corridor as the door closed between them.
Ulquiorra stood outside, waiting. He heard Aizen-sama's low tones and a few interjections from the woman. Then their voices moved further into the depths of Aizen-sama's palace and he heard nothing. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
The door opened. Orihime emerged, her face red. "Oh! You're still here—after so long."
The watchful green eyes met hers, flicked downwards, registered her disheveled clothing. "My orders were to wait."
Aizen appeared in the doorway behind her, holding a cup of tea. He reached down and stroked Orihime's cheek. Then he lifted her chin, lowered his face to hers, and spoke, almost into her mouth. "Thank you, Orihime. I enjoyed our conversation. And I hope you did too."
Without waiting for a reply, he raised his head again to the slight form in the corridor. "Thank you, Ulquiorra. Please return our guest to her room."
The door closed. "Follow me, woman."
"Yes."
They walked in file without speaking, their footfalls echoing on the stone floors.
Ulquiorra heard from behind him the sound of incompletely suppressed sobs: a kind of shuddering to her breathing, nothing more. They walked on. He listened to her without breaking his stride.
At her door, he stood aside to permit her entry. She walked past him without pausing, her face still red, her eyes wet. She entered without turning, walking directly to stand under her window and stare out at the crescent moon, her fists clenched at her sides.
He waited for a moment for her to turn to him. Then, when she did not, he stepped over the threshold.
"Woman."
She did not turn, but clasped her hands in front of her. "Yes."
"I'll see to it that a bath is prepared. And fresh garments."
"Yes. Th-thank you." Her voice tired, remote.
He turned to leave, and then turned back. "It is an honour."
"Yes." No hesitation, only deep fatigue.
"We are—for Aizen-sama's use."
"Yes."
"I'll leave you then." No answer. He turned and left. The click of the door echoed heavily in the deserted corridor as he swept down the corridor and away from her.
Orihime was still standing in the same position some time later when the door opened again. She turned to see a servant with a full, insect-like mask. The creature hesitated, nodded, and then slipped back out into the corridor only to return pushing a cart made out of some kind of bluish-silver metal. On the upper shelf, bottles of coloured liquids rocked with the cart's motions. On the lower, towels and fresh clothing were stacked neatly. She wondered idly how many sets of identical clothing had been prepared for her use. They fit remarkably well considering she hadn't been measured. She almost laughed at the precision with which the linens were folded and stacked. Here, in this insane place. Everything so orderly.
"Oh—hello." The arrancar glanced up quickly but did not reply, pushing the cart toward Orihime's bathroom. ˆ
"I wonder if you can talk." The masked face implacable, the visitor moved into the bathroom. Orihime heard the sound of running water.
"I guess you must have a name. Or a number? Or something?" She called over the water's gush. No answer. Orihime sighed and resumed her lonely watch at the window. Presently the water stopped. She turned. The arrancar emerged from the bathroom, came toward her, and bowed slightly, then turned and moved toward the door.
"What do they call you?" With a quick backward glance, the servant left the room as silently as it (he? she?) had entered.
"Well, goodbye. See you next time." Orihime sighed again, staring at the closed door.
"It's like I'm in a hospital or something." Her voice echoed off the stone walls. A lonely sound, but still better than nothing. She walked to the door of the bathroom. Warm scented vapour rose through the frigid air. "Or some fancy hotel where they do everything for you."
She whirled and strode quickly to the door through which the servant had left, tried it. Of course.
"Except I can't leave." She turned back to the window. And anyway, what would I do if I did get out there. She felt a catch in her chest. Don't cry. I promised Tatsuki. I will be brave, and come back.
The thought of Tatsuki made everything here suddenly real. Was this some kind of weird dream? Or—perhaps—was her life in Karakura Town the dream? Zuangzhi dreamed he was a butterfly… She remembered swimming after Sora died, heading far out from her friends in her lonely sorrow, deep into the water. As she swam she watched the refracted sunlight on the sand below her. Farther, farther. Eventually she reached a place where the bright sand disappeared, a borderland beyond which the bottom was pure blackness. She hung in the water there, treading, looking down, back and forth from the sandy bottom to the black abyss. She peered into the blackness, trying to see something, anything, pushing her body forward until she was suspended directly over the dark. She couldn't see anything. It was like—a void.
It had called to her then, the nothing. So she looked back to the shore, but the haze on the water made the land twitch and fade. She had gazed, then, at the pitch-black drop-off, had wondered whether it was more true than the shifting, glittering shoreline on which her friends played and laughed. That same feeling, then, of unrealness. Of lostness.
She looked over at the bathroom. How long had she been just standing here? Steam billowed from the open door. She touched her cheek, remembering and repeating Aizen's parting words. "And I hope you did too." It had been odd. Now she knew that she hadn't enjoyed it. But at the time, anyone watching would have contradicted that. But I didn't want it, did I? And I knew it. Even then I knew it. Even while I was doing it, saying it—Her cheeks began to burn with shame at the remembered encounter. She raised both hands to her face, feeling its hotness.
"OK, I really do need a bath."
"Yes, that's what I said almost an hour ago." The even, familiar voice pulled her back into reality.
She startled, whirled. "Ulquiorra—I didn't hear you come in."
"You were evidently elsewhere." He slipped back out into the hallway and returned leading the servant who'd delivered the bathing necessities. Once inside the door he stood aside to permit the arrancar to pass. Her dedicated attendant pushed another laden cart, this time with tea. And snacks. In spite of herself, Orihime felt her mouth moisten with anticipation, her stomach tighten. As always, food rallied her heart. Even here. How long had it been since she'd eaten? Too long, certainly. Her eyes roamed greedily over the plates on the rolling cart.
"Oh—are those—mochi? Mmm." Leaving the cart beside the sofa, the silent arrancar turned and stood silently beside it. Ulquiorra came in, casting himself onto the end of the sofa farthest from the server.
"Oh my God—are they red bean paste? My favourite mochi! And—green tea wafers!" Orihime sat down close to the tea trolley, her mouth now frankly watering. With a remarkably graceful bow, the servant placed a large white napkin in her lap. It—he, she decided—then picked up a thin English-style china cup and poured her a cup of tea from a thin-spouted metal pot. Orihime took the cup gratefully. "Thank you." The arrancar nodded. Fragrant steam rose from the cup. Orihime raised the cup to her face, closed her eyes, felt the steam lick her cheeks, her brows. Ahhh. "Mmmmm."
"You may leave now." Ulquiorra waved his hand at the servant, who gave a final bow, turned, and left the room.
"What's his name?" Without taking a plate from the cart, Orihime seized one of the mochi and bit into it, savouring its soft squishiness and admiring its plum-coloured insides. "Mmm. Oh—that's so good."
Ulquiorra watched her closely. "Who? Oh. His name. I don't know. He would have a number. I don't know exactly what it is. Regardless, you may command him."
Orihime spoke through a mouthful of mochi, picking up one of the green tea wafers. "I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't answer. I wasn't sure whether he could talk. But I could tell he could hear." She pushed the wafer into her mouth to join the dwindling mochi. "Yum."
The espada raised an eyebrow as she gulped her tea and hungrily seized another wafer. "He's forbidden to speak to you. If you wish him to speak, you will have to order him to do so."
"What? That's crazy. Why would he be forbidden to speak?" Her words were intelligible, but slightly distorted by her full mouth. A few wafer crumbs fell from her lips, landed on the expansive white shelf of bosom. Ulquiorra resisted the urge to reach out and brush them away. An impulse born of my loathing of disorder, nothing more.
The espada sighed, rose, and poured himself a cup of tea. He stood by the cart sipping at it, watching his captive.
Orihime stared up at him, brushing a crumb from her lip. "I didn't know you drank tea!"
"A taste indoctrinated by Aizen-sama. And—as regards your question." He drank delicately. "Order is produced through the knowing of one's place. To speak to one's superiors is to flout that principle."
"That's—insane." Orihime sipped her own tea noisily, savouring its hotness on her lips, still looking at him. She picked up the last mochi, pressed its softness against her mouth, looked at its flattened shape, bit it, regarded its filling. "Crazy."
"Not really. It's a concept not unfamiliar to your human societies. And, as I said, productive of order." Ulquiorra watched Orihime as she absentmindedly pushed her tongue into the centre of the bitten mochi, probing the soft bean paste. "The food is, I take it, to your liking?"
"Mmm… yeah, it's good. I didn't realize I was so hungry until it came. These—" she licked more bean paste out of the mochi—"these are my favourite. The only thing missing is some wasabi!"
"I see." Ulquiorra observed her pink tongue licking the deep-red bean paste out of the squashed little cake. Darting in and out. He placed his cup on the cart and turned.
"Now that your energy is somewhat restored, I'd suggest you bathe and dress. Aizen-sama would like to see you again, shortly, in his apartments. I'll return to collect you in an hour." He walked silently toward the door, hands in his pockets.
Orihime put the licked-out mochi's skin onto the cart, her appetite gone. "An hour? So—soon? Why?"
Ulquiorra stopped, opened the door, and spoke without turning. "One more thing. You are to use—the items. On the cart."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"Bathe now. I'll see you in an hour." The door closed behind him.
Orihime went into the steamy bathroom. Back there, in an hour. Surely he couldn't want… already. But then why the cryptic bathing orders? She began to undress. Her clothing puddled on the floor as she studied the cart. The items on the cart. The bottles she had seen were of various shapes, their contents multi-coloured. Beside them sat a hairbrush and a box she hadn't seen before now. Nearly naked now, she opened it. Inside were earrings and a necklace of some white metal, worked in strange twists and knots. Her voice echoed off the close hard walls. "Well, those are pretty—but not really my style." Was she expected to wear these to her next interview? Evidently. She sniffed at each bottle, feeling the liquid inside and attempting to ascertain its purpose. Some were oily and seemed like something you'd pour into a bath. But the bath was already drawn and scented. Some smelled soapy. Others were less oily, more like perfumes. One seemed like a pigment—maybe makeup?—but quite liquid. Not one bore any kind of enlightening label or tag.
She put the last one down on the cart, pulled off her panties, and stood regarding herself in the large mirror above the tub. Her face was fine, but the marks on her breasts from earlier were already starting to darken. She parted her legs, lifted one, examined her thigh. There too. She dipped a toe into the water, found it still pleasantly hot, stepped in, and reclined in steamy comfort. Ahhhh. Once again her life-will stirred and flowed, and she savoured the feel of the hot water on her stiff body. "Hmmm… which one is soap?" She stood again, stepped out, and selected a likely pink liquid from the trolley. Then, back in the tub, she rubbed her body and hair with the liquid, which produced a scented lather. Rinsing her body, moving her hands over its tenderness, felt comforting, good. She lay back, placing a towel behind her head, and drifted into sleep.
"Woman."
She snapped to attention, sat up. The towel behind her head slipped down into the water. "What—What time is it?"
The familiar voice responded from beyond the open bathroom door. "You are expected in ten minutes. Get out of there and dress."
"OK—yes!" She leaped from the water, seized a towel, and began rubbing her body frantically, watching herself in the mirror. Suddenly Ulquiorra appeared behind her, himself brandishing a towel. She clasped the towels to her front and shrieked.
"Ah—What—are you doing!"
He dropped the hand holding the towel. "Don't be so ridiculous. I am attempting to help you so that we arrive on time, since you have apparently paid no attention to our schedule. To arrive late would be an infraction rendering us both liable to punishment. And justly so."
Punishment. "Oh…" She stood looking at him in the mirror, the towels still clutched to her front, her buttocks bare to him, her cheeks burning. "OK. I'll hurry. But please. I'll do it myself."
"As you wish. But hurry. If you aren't dressed in four minutes I'll dress you myself."
"Y—yes!" As he left the room, Orihime hurriedly finished rubbing herself down and pulled her fresh clothing on over her still-damp body, the dry clothes sticking to her and slowing her down. She grabbed one of the bottles, sniffed it, and dabbed some of the oily green liquid in it behind her ears. Then she pulled the brush over her damp hair, put on the jewellery, and went out to meet Ulquiorra. She found him sitting on the sofa beside the tea cart, eyes closed, holding the bridge of his nose between two elegant fingers.
"Do you have a headache?"
"A headache. No." He opened his bright eyes, looked at her, rose and turned. "Let's go."
"Do I look—OK?"
He turned to her again, moved his eyes over her. "Yes. You appear clean. Now follow me, woman."
Orihime thought for a moment of the messy bathroom, the undrained bath, the wreckage of tea. She had been responsible for herself for so long that she felt a pang of guilt at leaving such disorder behind her. Then she remembered her servant—her situation—and laughed at her foolishness.
Ulquiorra spoke again, more insistently. "Come with me now. We don't want to be late."
Orihime's smile disappeared as she followed the espada out the door and toward the chambers of the ruler of Las Noches. Now, that.