Hey- I've had a maddening Ulquihime plot bunny racing around my head for the past 24 hours or so, and so this chapter is going to be pulled out kicking and screaming.. I'm not even sure what it's going to be about yet. I guess I'll just kind of play it by ear..
Back in Halibel's quarters, the three Espada, as well as Halibel's Fracción were about to call it a day. They had had an exhausting hour or so after the meeting frantically trying to locate the reatsu of both Orihime and Anómino and it was failing pretty miserably. Everyone wanted to just flop down on a bed and moan loudly. But no one's pride actually allowed them to, except Apache, who then commenced to doing it. This triggered a whole new round of arguing, and right now, Ulquiorra did not have the patience for it. He rose swiftly from his seat and exited the room without a sound, letting the door click shut behind him.
He backed up to the wall and let the back of his head thud against it, closing his eyes as he bared his throat to the world. He inhaled through his nose, letting the air flow through his body, rejuvenating him. Restoring him.
If only he could restore everything with just a deep breath. Inside, Halibel and her cronies were scrambling to find the reatsu of his Onna. And for what? So that he could be certain she was alive; still out of reach, yes, but alive? A temptation hovering over him like the devil on his shoulder, crooning into one delicate white ear? Like the very last cookie in the jar or that one shirt that belongs to your sister, that thing you know you shouldn't take. That's what she was, that was what her potential could be, the deadliest sin. How easy it would be to just go back to her, like a schoolboy falling back into his warm bed on a winter morning. But he had to rise, dress himself, gather his books and go to his lessons, feeling that longing for his warm sheets all day long somewhere inside him, not quite knowing what he wanted until he could come home, kick off his shoes and fall back to his mattress with an Aah…of realization, this is what I wanted, this is that longing.
Was that really so much to ask? Would the weekend ever come, where he would be allowed to sleep in, rise from his sheets at his leisure? Was he to trundle to school every morning without break, until he could no longer bear to part with those warm, comforting blankets? Even worse, if he was pulled away from that sunset-haired goddess, every morning, and leaving her to wake up alone?
So many questions that he was unable to answer. It left Ulquiorra feeling slightly depressed. He ran a hand through his black hair, his pinky sliding over the smooth helmet that rested there.
Hearing the door open, Ulquiorra blinked and pushed himself gently off of the wall to face Halibel, who emerged slowly from the room. She met his gaze silently and handed him an envelope, which he accepted.
"I didn't want to give it to you in all that chaos," she murmured.
Ulquiorra nodded and drew his own letter from his uniform, handing it to her. She took it and disappeared back inside.
Ulquiorra broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it. The first thing he noticed were blots on the page where she had pressed the pen to the paper for far too long, letting the ink spread and wet the paper. He then noticed that her writing was sloppy, messier than usual, as if it had been written in a fit of rage, so unlike her usual self. He could even spot all-capital words and underlines and multiple exclamation points, as well as places where she had retraced the letters with a harsh hand, over and over and over until the paper was indented under his fingers.
As he read it, he felt despair fill him.
Now she hated him.
Clutching the paper tightly in his hands, he closed his eyes once more, drawing in another deep breath. When he opened his eyes once more, however, her furious accusations still pinned him down, cursing his existence from the bottom of her soul, from the deepest chasm of her heart.
A deep breath wasn't going to fix anything this time.
He resisted the urge to crumple the letter into his hand and took one more deep breath. In this kind of situation, there was but one more entity he could consult.
Murciélago.
Consulting with Murciélago always required extreme concentration. His sword was proud and very judgemental. If Ulquiorra did not have the exact right mindset, his sword would often ignore him, leaving him frustrated and mad. Sometimes the blade would lock him out for days if he did something Murciélago did not approve of.
He sat on his bed and folded his legs "criss-cross applesauce" as the Onna would say, laying his sword carefully across his knees. He then placed his palms over his knees, so that the blade ran between.
He closed his eyes and inhaled, letting his chest expand. Breathing out, he felt the tickle of currents against his skin, feeling feathery, that sensation of being so completely submerged that you can't even tell you're wet.
He let his eyes slide slowly open, seeing the green-blue underwater world he found himself in. With one graceful movement, he stood, taking in his surroundings. The ground under him, sandy dirt, billowed in the water with each small movement, each step disrupting and making clouds around his knees before settling again. Around him stood ruins of a Greek-era city, crumbling buildings that had water algae climbing up the sides, mossy tendrils weaving in the currents. Each window had a fuzzy green outline, rocks on the ground and a very old fountain all were covered with a greenish tinge. Small water weeds grew from the sandy ground, waving in the current.
Ulquiorra took a step toward the city, and noticed with irritation that Murciélago had shifted him to his final form, as the blade was wont to do when he visited his inner world. He flicked his long, whiplike tail in annoyance and folded his large wings against his back. Behind him, his tail stirred up the sand, and it settled slowly back to the ground.
Ulquiorra made his way to an underwater pavilion, the watery ceiling being blocked from view. Instead of sand beneath his taloned feet, he was now walking on ages-old cement, cracked in places, eroded at the corners, tiny plants growing from the imperfections splintering across it. Columns with chunks missing from the sides unsteadily supported the arch of the porch, and the sides of the ceiling boasted old paintings directly on the surface that had traces of color left, by now mostly washed away, but the occasional bright spot remaining amongst the greenish world. As he walked down the concrete, he could see into the rooms of the building that was lined by this porch; most were empty save for one decoration – a table that was set for ten with glasses, silverware and plates that had long since been covered with algae, a wardrobe hanging open with threads spilling out, a workbench covered with rusted tools. At the last room he stopped, knowing that this was where his sword would be, and observed the figure in the room for a moment before announcing himself.
Inside the room a figure sat before a piano, the keys browned and one leg shorter than the rest, the supporting stand holding up the top covered in a solid layer of moss. The figure's back was to him, but he knew that it was Murciélago. Black hair flowing down solidly save for one side, where the strands were shaved close to the head near the ear, which had been pierced several times. A corset bound the figure's back tightly, lacing up the back and flowing out from the waist in a skirt with many layers as thin as onion skin. The dress was made of fifty shades of green, blending in with the environment. Despite the fact that there were no soft grounds here, there were no shoes on the figure's feet, delicate ankles trimmed by a small bracelet. Toes were turned in at the joint of the foot and calf, curled under as if in preparation for some dance. But though Murciélago was seated before a piano, she had a violin mounted under her left ear, which was hidden behind her black hair. A bow moved solidly up and down over the four strings, save for the D, which had popped long ago and now left curled wires floating about over the bridge and fingerboard.
The melody that Murciélago was playing was difficult for Ulquiorra to hear, because the acoustics in his inner world were awful. However, he could hear when she lifted her bow and spun to face him, her green eyes glaring.
Her hair trailed over one ear, almost hiding her left eye but not quite. She had a small nose and lips that were unpainted, eyes that were unbrushed. Her skin was smooth, not baring a single freckle or mole. Her dress was sleeveless and left her shoulders bare, although her left breast was peppered with tattoos; the most conspicuous being a large 4 placed on the same location as Ulquiorra's himself. A necklace looped around under her hair and was draped over her collarbones, with a bat wing pendant hanging from it. Her dress worked to contain her breasts, and her waist was small, from what you could see under the billowy skirt.
"You interrupted me," she accused him, her voice floating across the water.
He shrugged, his pale shoulders rising and falling with the movement. "It is an important matter. I need advice."
Murciélago sighed and laid down her violin, the back plunking against the keys. The sound that came from it was chaotic, jarring against the beautiful violin from earlier. She pushed back the piano bench and stepped carefully over it, her dress floating about her knees as her pointed toe landed on the concrete floor. Ulquiorra watched her, bracelets sliding on her arms, rings glittering on her thin fingers.
Behind her, two large bat wings shimmered into view, and she shook them out and then folded them behind her, watching with interest as the currents made pebbles bounce around on the ground and the fur on Ulquiorra's body blow back. She lifted one hand, ran black fingernails through her hair, pushing it to the side. "Is it about that girl?"
A slight crease appeared between Ulquiorra's eyebrows. "She has a name."
"So that's a yes?"
"Do you always deflect attention from yourself with a question?"
"I don't know, do I?" Murciélago's mouth spread into a smile. She laughed, bubbles spewing from her lips. "You're funny, Ulquiorra. You should visit me more often. I get really lonely here, you know."
Abruptly she stopped laughing and frowned, picking up a black leather jacket from the piano bench. She shrugged it on over her sleeveless dress, unfurling her wings through slits in the back. She ran her hands over her upper arms, shivering, and glared at Ulquiorra again.
"Why do you always have to make the water so cold when you come here?" she grumbled.
"You irritate me."
She frowned deeper. "That's not a nice thing to say to someone who you need advice from."
Ulquiorra padded over to the piano bench and sat gingerly on it, flicking his tail briefly across the keys. Murciélago faced him, tapping her fingers impatiently on her arms, her stance defiant.
"Why must you dress that way? You look like an American. I don't like it."
She flipped her hair. "I can dress how I like. It's not like there's anyone around here to see me, ever. You're not my dad, Ulquiorra."
"Thank Aizen."
"Look, can we get to the point? What, exactly, do you want me to say to you?"
Ulquiorra allowed his shoulders to slouch a little. "I need help," he admitted grudgingly, closing his golden eyes, shutting off his green sclera and diamondlike pupils.
She smirked. "Help with what now?"
"Help with the Onna." Ulquiorra grit his teeth.
"First step: don't call her by that derogatory nickname. How would you like it if someone called you The Man?"
Ulquiorra had to admit that if someone went around calling him that, he would probably get very angry with them.
"It's not that, that I need help with," he said. "You live inside me, so I'm sure you're aware of what happened."
The water was starting to warm up again. Murciélago shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the bench next to Ulquiorra.
"Yeah, pretty much," she said. "Up to where? You writing her that last letter that made her so mad? If I was you, I'd pretty much drop her pretty ass now. See, she was pretty rude to you, you know. I'm not down with that."
"It does not matter. What should I do? That's what I need to know."
Murciélago sighed. She pivoted around, the small movement causing the dress to flare up around her thighs, each piece of viridian onion skin fluttering individually. "You need to treat her like a woman," she said. She pulled all her hair over one shoulder and began to work it into a braid, her fingers fast in her black locks. "You need to apologize for what you said."
"But I didn't even do anything wrong."
"She's probably confused as to what to think. Maybe you should back off a little, maybe even write her an apology letter and then let her cool off a little. Let her write you back saying she forgives you. And then just…switch topics for a bit."
"Switch topics to what?"
She rolled her eyes. "I don't know. Anything. Ask her what her friends are like."
"But I don't care about her friends. They are idiotic trash."
Murciélago bounded over to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "Listen to yourself!" she yelled in his face. "Listen to yourself! You are so stubborn! All you want is for her to remember what you had. Did you ever even think about the fact that maybe, just maybe, you could get her to fall for you again? Huh? Did that ever occur to you, you baka Ulquiorra? Huh?"
Ulquiorra grimaced and pushed her away. "If you were anyone else, you would be a pile of ash right now."
"Were you even listening to me? !"
"If that happened, we would be back at square 1."
"Fine then! Fine! Come to me for advice, and then don't follow it! Fine!"
Ulquiorra sighed in exasperation. "Don't you have any other advice?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, her green corset expanding as she did so. "Here is my advice. Back the fuck off, Ulquiorra. You're forcing things on her that she obviously doesn't want to think about, so as a defense she's pushing you away. Ask her about things she wants to talk about. Her brother, her friends, whatever. Anómino. Then, slowly, ease back into the topic again. Do that, and you should be set to go."
Ulquiorra stood. "Are you sure?"
"Positive." Murciélago nodded. "Now you should get going. You need to get started on that apology letter."
In one bound she had reached him and flung her arms around him, resting her head against his chest for a moment. She closed her brilliant green eyes, and then opened them and looked up at him with a smile.
"See ya," she said, and smacked his butt.
Ulquiorra was gone before he could wring her slender neck.
When he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see that Murciélago's jacket was folded neatly on his bed with a note pinned to it. On top of it was a large bouquet of yellow-orange flowers.
Forgot to give you this. It's for Chica, with my love. Pass this on to her with your 'I'm Sorry' note and a big armload of flowers! Girls love flowers!
-M.
He shook his head and set down the note. Somehow he could see Orihime snuggling into the leather jacket. He got up and went over to his writing desk.
My sweet Orihime,
I am so very sorry for my last letter. I am not going to make any excuses for my incessant probing. What I was trying…actually, I said I wouldn't make any excuses. I hope you actually read this letter, I hope you aren't too angry with me. Please, find it in your heart to forgive me somehow.
This jacket is from Murciélago, with love.
I will not ask you any more questions about myself. It is now clear to me that you have no intention of regaining what we once had. I shall try to put you out of my mind. Unless you say otherwise, this will be my last letter to you.
Amorously,
Ulquiorra, Espada number 4.