He watched her.
The small shadow following his Lord, a defected Shinigami whose sole consolation in her meager life was the comfort derived from the cool eyes of calculating brown that once in a while turned her way. Then, she'd instantly brighten, sallow cheeks glowing, invisible burdens lifting from her heart, with a smile touching ghostly pale lips; she'd hover obediently at his heels.
It sickened him to see her so dependant on one so Godly.
There she was again.
Standing beneath the drooping tree, tears of silent humiliation trailing down once-porcelain cheeks. The oval, razor-edged leaves seemed like her—beaten, careworn, unloved.
He paused.
Looked at her a moment longer then continued on his way; she got what she deserved at his Lord's hands.
"Ulquiorra," she spoke to him for the first time, her voice barely above a whisper. He halted, when no one else did. "What do you want, trash?" instructions from his Lord had been to treat the ex Shinigami as any other denizen of Hueco Mundo. Pitifully small hands tugged at a burden, her back bent, dark bangs fringed her forehead, the glossy luster gone.
"Can you help me?"
He waited for the rest of her request.
Then understood.
A gallon of drawn water rested at her tiny feet, water for the plum tree.
Wordlessly he slid his white fingers over the handle of the jug, his eyes not missing the spark of life in her listless hazel orbs. Thank you, they said.
He did not need worthless gratitude from a beaten Shinigami.
The leaves curled at his touch.
Scattered blossoms as white as her skin lay disconsolate on the sandy ground, their crimson centers bleeding it seemed, in mourning for the life taken. His Lord's will had been done; the ex Lieutenant put out of her misery.
So why…Ulquiorra stared down at his hands, the palms unstained, the skin as white as snow. The simile had amused his Lord, "skin as white as snow containing a soul blacker than hell."
…did he not feel contented?
Love was a ploy of the weak to bring down the strong.
It was a weakness of the heart he did not have.
Why did…Hinamori Momo had loved his Lord, worshipped him to the bitter end of her life when she'd drunk the bitterest of dregs her soul could take.
She had loved no one else.
…he have to be the one to take her life?
The slender trunk of the dying tree seemed to whisper the words to him, mockingly, he felt, for nothing could have come from the prior realization of this.
But one thing.
He hadn't…Hinamori Momo wouldn't have died on the floor of Las Noches' Throne room.
…realized until then how much he had wanted to love her.
~`~`~`~Finis~`~`~`~
AN: don't own Bleach. A different sort of pairing, tragedy being the theme, as Hinamori loved Aizen and Ulquiorra wanted to love her. Eh, for a change. Please let me know what you thought of it.
Signed, Ms. Raven, Guten tag everyone.