Nelliel Tu Oderschvank has long since accepted that she, just like every other Espada created, is inherently shackled to her own aspect of death.
Always it lingers in her unconscious thoughts, hushed whispers on the outskirts; it is the essence of her being, a reflection of her very purpose in this world. In some impossibly complicated way, it means both everything and nothing all at the same time.
It's only natural that she should learn to embrace her aspect of death— after all, for the Espada, their respective aspects influence their beliefs, their actions, even their very reasons for existence.
Lamentation.
Nel could easily make the case that being the manifestation of her aspect of death is arguably the most complicated given that it comes with additional burdens. For most of the Espada, their aspects of death are just reminders of their true selves, guideposts for their individual journeys, not an active hindrance in their actual lives. But Nel— it's different for her.
Nelliel feels; she aches and weeps and mourns, whereas the others don't seem to be shackled by any such emotions.
There had been many times in the past that she found herself childishly jealous of the others.
Starrk's aspect of death was "isolation"— all he had to do to feel sated and balanced was be by himself (which he did 99% of the time, often napping in strangest places). She had always been sour about the fact that Barragan's was "aging"— or rather, "time"— his aspect felt almost omnipresent; he wore like a familiar cloak. Yammy's aspect being "rage" was both exceedingly obvious and completely unfair; it was a comfortable aspect for him, something he could shout proudly and beat his chest about.
Lamentation, she thinks, is not an aspect one should ever be comfortable with or able to enjoy.
It is her pure essence of lamentation that has led her down the path to where she is today, and upon reflecting on her past, she knows all too well that it has not always been in her best interest to embrace her aspect of death. In fact, it seems overwhelmingly obvious to her now that it has often hindered rather than helped her.
Nel can't help feeling slightly guilty thinking that way— after all, yes, she had survived the war. Yes, she was one of the lucky three remaining former Espada. And yes, she made it home to Hueco Mundo and ultimately Las Noches.
However, it was lamentation, knowing the palpable sorrow and searing pain, that kept (and still keeps) Nelliel from desiring pointless conflict.
It was lamentation, feeling the impending grief and endless what-if's, that kept Nelliel from putting a stop to Nnoitra when she should have, staying her hand and sheathing her sword.
It was lamentation, having largely shaped her pacifist modus operandi, that led to her two dearest friends being damaged irreparably.
And it was lamentation, having subconsciously subdued her instincts, that had led to her downfall at the hand of the former fifth Espada.
Despite all that, and amongst everything else— all the tornadoes of emotions and whirlwinds of tragedies, the quiet voices whispering to her soul or the cries of agony ringing in her ears— Nel considers herself overall content with her aspect of death.
She has found power in her lamentation.
Lamentation has factually made her stronger, made her wiser; it has sculpted her a cool and calculating individual. The presence of emotions makes her feel more alive, more like she belongs on the mortal coil. In those moments she feels powerful, warmth gushing through her veins, as though she could command the very heavens with her fingertips.
And it is her lamentation that she feels separates her from the beasts constantly all around her— both inside Las Noches and out.
It's been an extraordinarily long few months since she and Grimmjow returned with a rescued Halibel to the abandoned Hueco Mundo.
The world had been a damn mess upon arrival, a laughable husk of what it once was (and it wasn't much to begin with). The realization that they were now likely the highest life forms within the entire realm hit like a meteor in different ways for all three of them— Grimmjow was overcome with glee, Halibel began silently calculating instantaneously, and Nelliel felt a crushing weight descend upon her shoulders.
Of course, their strength inevitably worked out in their favor; the three former Espada are the most powerful Vasto Lordes in existence, and at the end of the day when all is said and done their kind yield to a hierarchy of power. Tenuous coordinations they developed over time with other hollows has allowed for the beginning of a full reconstruction of Las Noches and while things are certainly looking up, nothing is going easily.
Nothing ever does, she thinks bitterly.
Nelliel quickly snaps back to reality just in time to catch the tail end of something Halibel had been sharing with both her and Grimmjow.
They're in an impromptu meeting together, as the three of them have assumed joint rule of Hueco Mundo until things can be finalized further when both the figurative and literal dust has settled. Nelliel fully intends to yield the throne to Halibel, and she already expects that the former sexta will lose his mind when she does.
Well, whatever Halibel had said doesn't appear to have been anything that requires an answer, so she simply bows her head and nods affirmatively, pretending to have heard the whole statement.
Grimmjow, as usual, doesn't even pretend to have paid attention and just lets out a 'tch' noise. Nel's hazel eyes quickly dart over to glare at him, but he's not paying attention, his electric blue eyes fixed somewhere off to the side.
Halibel stands up from her chair, which serves as a silent dismissal.
Nel turns on her heel, beginning to make her swift exit— however, she's evidently not paying enough attention while rotating and winds up stumbling on a piece of rubble off to the side. The sudden loss of balance sends her wobbling to the left, bumping against Grimmjow just slightly as a result. It takes mere seconds for her to realign herself physically, but internally she's reeling.
Because she felt it.
It was small, so small it was almost muffled, full of such incredible agony and dismay. It was like a bolt of electricity sent through her body, saturating every single one of her senses, making her gasp aloud. In an instant, tears spring to her eyes due to to the sheer searing anguish that she aches with.
Lament.
Nel bristles visibly and scrambles away from Grimmjow as if he has some kind of infectious disease. That feeling— for the slightest second when she had stumbled into him, her hand had bumped against his own. The smallest touch, and yet she couldn't have missed the way his hand twitched, all of the muscles surging, fingers trembling just slightly— but then it fell limp, looking almost helpless.
Grimmjow spots the tears in her eyes and freezes momentarily, but when she offers no words or explanations at all for her strange actions the former sexta just winds up getting flustered and angry, throwing a choice few curse words at her before stalking away in a huff.
Nelliel touches her index finger to her right eye and feels the moisture that lingers there. The pain had been so raw, so tender, so intense— and yet so small, so stubborn, and silenced too soon. That agony— it was his lament, reaching out to her. It was clinging to her like a child would their mother, and the parting physically burns.
There's one significant detail that Nel despises about being the manifestation of the aspect of lamentation:
It often goes hand in hand with being compassionate towards others at a great cost to her personal self. From the very second she first felt that small hint of Grimmjow's lament, she already yearned to understand.
There's a pretty good chance he'll attempt to kill her, but she decides that the sensation of anguish had been far too intense for her to simply let it go.
She'd never truly met Grimmjow in her adult form until after meeting Ichigo— or maybe she had and then forgotten him along with the rest of her memories, though he's showed no signs of this being the case— so he's an enigma to her, the definition of unfamiliar territory.
She could easily keep her distance. It's probably for the best; after all, there's no need to become familiar with someone whose aspect of death is nearly opposite her own.
But that voice, that scream, will not stop calling to her whether he's near her side or leagues across the desert.
Nel eventually decides that it's time she learns how to speak his language.
The first time Nelliel tries to connect with him, she's overwhelmed.
She corners him a day or two after the meeting in which he'd accidentally bared his soul to her without any knowledge of doing so. Given that they don't have any past history and, well, he's a cranky asshole, the encounter doesn't go quite as planned.
Grimmjow teaches her the first rule very quickly: he doesn't appreciate being cornered or ambushed.
"What the fuck do you want?"
His tone is acidic, but Nel says nothing as she strides steadily towards the balcony on which she'd found him lazily sulking. She breathes in his words, inhales their essence deeply as she moves; yet they yield nothing, not even a trace of the small, tortured voice that had so loudly called to her.
Her brow furrows in confusion, and Grimmjow seems to be getting increasingly irritated the longer she goes without speaking.
"Seriously, what the fuck do you—"
His voice cuts off abruptly when Nel reaches out fearlessly and places her hand on his left cheek before closing her eyes. As she expected, the feeling sparks once more and blazes through her, ignites under her skin; the intensity of it makes her bones creak, its pressure immense.
Nel finds that she has to resist stumbling backward, but she doesn't move her hand, instead allowing the sheer force flow through her body like a power conduit. She takes in his lament like a dry sponge does water, and just as easily, too— it is her own aspect of death, after all, and her body naturally calls to it.
When Nel finally gains what she feels is decently firm control over the writhing anguish permeating her very being, she hesitantly opens her eyes, fully expecting Grimmjow to react violently.
Instead, he looks like something has completely blown his world to smithereens. He's almost cute like that, his mouth hanging open in dumb surprise, eyes wide with confusion. Something abruptly feels different, but Grimmjow doesn't know what, and it's making him feel very uneasy. However, he makes no move to discard her hand.
Nel decides to daringly go a step further, then, tracing his jaw with her index finger before running her thumb over his lips softly.
The sensation she's taking in seems to try reversing its flow, twisting and turning, attempting to overtake her, but she's captured it; it's become one with her very essence and no longer causes her the anguish that had initially plagued her so. She closes her hazel eyes, subduing the ache easily with little effort.
Her body jerks with a small start when she feels a slight sensation on the thumb she left lingering on his lips. It had only been for a moment, but Grimmjow had softly brushed his own lips over her thumb of his own volition; in fact, if she squinted just right and turned her head sideways, it almost looked like he had actually kissed it.
He suddenly looks up at her, their eyes connect on every level, and she feels it. She feels something new invade the atmosphere; a light poking, prodding sensation heavy with curiosity of the unknown.
It's him— it's his own aspect of death, his essence of destruction.
She can identify it right away when it burns her briefly as it brushes just slightly against her own. The searing heat she feels does not surprise her; the two essences more often than not tend to be the antithesis of the other, after all. One mourns for what is forever lost, and one seeks only to destroy despite what is already gone.
Nel finally feels that she can confirm her initial hypothesis: Grimmjow objectively fails with words and speech because he makes all of his statements through his actions.
He doesn't know any other way to express how he feels aside from smashing his own unfiltered emotions at another— an act of destruction, she muses to herself, and one corner of her mouth curves upward.
The spell breaks when she leaves him hanging for what must be too long and he shoves her entire arm away, spluttering angrily and storming off without letting her get a word in edgewise.
Okay, so it's a nonverbal language— she can handle that.
Bring it on.
Nelliel decides that during their next encounter it's for the best if she actually speaks to Grimmjow, because ever since that very first day when she was able to corner him, she hasn't been able to pin him down even once.
It's not like he's resorted to using his sonido whenever she appears anywhere nearby, but she could swear on her life that he might as well be doing so. He's an expert at making himself disappear; in fact, his form prior to becoming an arrancar makes so much sense now that it's ridiculous to her— a jaguar. Just a big dumb cat.
Nel's never actually encountered an actual cat in her life before, but she's read in many books that they're incredibly evasive. Well, so far that checks out.
She sighs audibly and puffs her chest out, leaning back casually against the column behind her while she muses. She's currently lingering in a random common area; somewhere mid-castle that weathered the war relatively well and remains livable. It's late in the evening and there's a fire going in the fireplace that's making the shadows dance around the room as if they're alive.
That might be part of why she doesn't immediately notice him when he approaches her— well, more like when he sneaks up on her.
Nel is idle for several moments before she finally takes note of Grimmjow's presence, his aura radiating from where he is suddenly leaning against the side of the column that is adjacent to her own. She lets out a noise of surprise despite herself and it's a wildly pathetic sound, some kind of hybrid between a squeak and a scream.
Grimmjow simply arches a brow quizzically in response. She rallies herself quickly, narrowing her hazel eyes in his direction.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people, you know. It's rude."
"Personal space sure didn't seem like a problem last time I saw you." His suggestive rebuttal makes her face flush, throwing her briefly into memory. She regains her bearings as quickly as she can.
"You mean the last time you saw me without running away like a coward." He instantly scowls at her, but she simply crosses her arms across her chest and pushes onward. "You run away every time I get close. Why?"
"I really don't like it when people ask me lots of questions, you know." Grimmjow's voice is pointed and dark, meant to deter her.
It doesn't.
She stands firm, her mouth a thin line. His spiritual pressure fluctuates and she feels it, raw in its power, an apparent display of dominance.
Nelliel instantly matches it with her own spiritual pressure, far more calm and controlled than his, but equal in power nonetheless. He dials his up higher in response, a sort of static crackling in the air around them. She is quick to counter him with the exact amount of energy necessary and nothing more, illustrating to him how easily she can match his strength.
Grimmjow's spiritual pressure returns to a normal level, and she responds in kind. A thick, heavy silence hangs between them; one that she frankly isn't sure how to break without scaring him away again. Luckily, she doesn't have to— it seems that he has no intentions of fleeing her this time.
"What did you do the other day?"
His sudden, blunt question catches her off guard and she blinks in confusion, furrowing her brow. "The other day? What do you mean?"
Grimmjow grits his teeth, evidently frustrated that she can't read his mind somehow.
"The other day. You know, with the..." He trails off, making some kind of vague wild hand gesture in the air that seems to be something meaningful and specific, but isn't enough of either to be helpful. She cocks her head in confusion and his irritation visibly increases— wow, he really is incredibly lousy with words.
"Oh!"
The former sexta jumps when he hears Nel make a small noise of exclamation as if a lightbulb has turned on in her head. She hums to herself for a moment, thinking something over, and then steps towards him brashly. Grimmjow rapidly makes to withdraw, seeming extremely wary of whatever she's about to do.
Before he can make a single move, she's reached her hand up to his left cheek and laid it to rest there. He freezes solid right away, and she feels his jaw clench and then unclench several times as if he's fighting the urge to lean into her hand.
"Do you mean this?" She asks him, cupping her hand gently for emphasis. Finally, whether he knows it or not, Grimmjow eases into her touch. He looks incredibly frustrated, but not in a genuinely angry type of way; more of a stubborn, childish way, if she had to guess.
He doesn't make any moves to touch her, but grunts in acknowledgment that yes, that's what he means.
"What did you do? Something changed." His voice is laden with suspicion, and Nel finds herself almost sad that he's so suspicious of her actions. She pauses for a moment, leaving her palm pressed to his cheek, and then gives him a small, mirthful smile.
"Why don't you try it for yourself and see?"
And then her hand is gone, the warmth on his face suddenly lost.
Grimmjow looks perplexed as to how he's supposed to go about doing that, and it's so absurd that it makes Nelliel want to laugh out loud. She holds herself back, opting instead to smile at him openly, keeping her eyes warm and inviting. He holds her gaze and for the longest time does absolutely nothing whatsoever.
As the seconds pass by and then turn to minutes, she finds herself growing anxious and finally it's been so long that Nel is just about to make some kind of excuse to retreat— until she feels him.
Grimmjow doesn't gently caress her face or lips; no, instead he drops a single finger down and traces slowly along the line of her clavicle from the outside edge to her sternum in the center.
Her breath catches in her chest as his touch leaves a slow burning feeling in its wake, both torturous and pleasurable. She's not sure if he notices the effects that he's having on her but whether he does or doesn't, Grimmjow continues to drag his finger over her skin, tracing over her other collarbone before lingering at the end and grinding his thumb lightly against it.
He turns his electric blue gaze towards her for the first time since initially touching her and Nel can feel her face flushing brightly in response to its intensity. His eyebrows rise at her visible reaction.
"So it affects you, too."
"Y-Yes," she stammers, cursing herself for doing so all the while. "It's because of us— our essences, I mean."
Grimmjow gives her a dull look. "Our what?"
"Our aspects of death." Nel fidgets slightly, nervous having his hand so near her, yet so still.
"Oh," he shrugs, parting his eyes from her gaze in favor of unashamedly staring down at where his fingers are touching her. "Yeah, I remember hearing about that. Aizen told me I was destruction or some shit. It seemed fitting."
There's a long pause before Nelliel suddenly feels his fingers glide along the slope of her shoulder and in no time they're at her neck, reaching and curling— she panics briefly, and he must sense the spike in her spiritual pressure because he turns his gaze to her face, studying her features with a voracious intensity.
"So, this," Grimmjow finally gestures vaguely at the physical space in between the two of them questioningly. "This is because of our... essences, or whatever you called them?"
Nelliel is having trouble summoning any words whatsoever at the moment, so she simply nods her head affirmatively. There's far more to it than just that, but frankly she doesn't want to push her luck or annoy him.
His fingers loosen around her neck, but instead of retreating she feels his hand moving towards her face. She finds him mimicking her earlier actions; first he rests his hand on her cheek and she leans into it willingly when he does, feeling the rough, calloused texture of his hand.
It's when he gets around to running his thumb over her lips that Nelliel decides to be surprisingly bold.
In one simple uncharacteristic motion, Nel abruptly takes his thumb into her mouth and sucks on it with light pressure, laving it gently with her tongue. After a moment she hesitantly raises her gaze to reach his, and when they lock eyes, a rush of pure adrenaline rips through her body.
Because judging by the look in his brilliant blue eyes, she can tell that Grimmjow felt it.
She releases his thumb from her mouth, making sure to swirl her tongue around it torturously one last time. Afterwards, Nel simply beams at him happily while he stands speechless.
It looks like she's learned his language.