The Cold Is To Be Endured.

That's kind of funny, actually. She pops online to update the next chapter, and here is a brand new review from A.J. asking that she do just that. Here is your chapter, darling.

And she'll let you in on a secret. Chapter eight is very, very close, and it is quite the grabber. She thinks you'll like it.

Thankyou to her reviewers, she is very grateful for the time you give her, especially her faithful reviewers, and to WinterWake, whose comments melted her into a little puddle of cheer.

Edit: How embarrassing, thankyou, taixi for pointing that out. She has a habit of leaving herself notes in her work, and she obviously forgot to remove it. Thankyou!


Chapter Seven.

It was a little peculiar, the way her heart jumped when he walked in.

It was an odd reaction if there ever was one.

His gait was calm (even), as it always was. He was resplendent in his own mask of alabaster indifference, as if he had no care in the world, and it was as if the last month had never happened. It was as if he hadn't pressed his lips to hers, and then completely abandoned her.

And it was funny that it didn't even cross her mind to be angry with him.

Instead, she merely said "Hello," around a mouth that had gone dry, and a throat thick.

He didn't reply. She knew he wouldn't, but she said it all the same.

Her dinner tray, brought in at the same time that he arrived, hunched close to him on the hideous little table, the silver mottled from his distorted reflection.

She thought it was a little odd that he had a reflection, because she secretly thought he looked kind of like a vampire, but she didn't dare say that out loud.

Never mind the fact that the first time she ever saw him was in broad daylight. However, predictably enough, the day that she first saw him standing quietly behind the hulking monster that was the Tenth Espada was not the day that stuck in her mind. Rather, it was the day that he had forced her to say goodbye to everybody she held dear.

How he had given her the chance to say farewell to one person that she was leaving behind, and given her the bracelet as if he was her beau; offering her a gift that promised commitment (and love). But it was not commitment that he gave her, but instead loneliness. And he was not her beau, but her warden. The man that brought her to this white washed prison - this pristine cell.

And she couldn’t even say goodbye to the man she had loved the most. She couldn’t move that single inch and now he was gone.

Since her brother (and then Kurosaki), Ulquiorra was the only other man to ever have such a huge impact on her life. She should remember the evening that started it all. And she did, in particular vividness.

She smiled tremulously at him. To say without words that she was (not!) glad that he was there, because she knew if she actually said it out loud his response would be nothing but scathing.

His face remained stoic, but she didn't mind. Her eyes devoured him, as if she could commit him to memory, so she could have something, even just a recollection of him; white as bone, white as the walls that surrounded her, with those awfully green eyes. Just in case he didn't return again.

Just in case he left her for good.

Would she hate that? Could she hate that? Could she even hate him?

Her tray sat there; untouched - she knew her food would still be there later - she didn't know how long he would deign to remain there, with her.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets as he kept his eyes on her. He was looking at her peculiarly.

...Did she have something on her face?

She scrubbed at it vigorously with her sleeves. However, he was still giving her that odd look when she finally came up for air. She gave it up for a lost cause, and sat on her hands instead, swinging her feet like a child.

She could not say how long they remained this way. It seemed as if it was forever, but it could have only been a few minutes (time was eternity anyway). The Fourth Espada merely watched her while her feet moved back and forth, back and forth, like an impetuous metronome that refused to cease.

Tick Tock. Tick Tock.

Tick. Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Ti --


He opened his mouth and spoke.

"King Aizen was informed that you had not been finishing your meals recently. I am here to ensure that you do so.

It's rather pathetic, that you need somebody to hold your hand as you do something as simple as consuming a meal."

The words were expected as much as the tone. The almost indeterminable scathing, the condescension that he viewed her – her kind – with, colouring his words like chalk on a blackboard. The tone bothered her right then, more than it ever did, because he had kissed her – he had pressed his cold, cold lips to hers and maybe, just maybe she had pressed back (only a little). He couldn’t – shouldn’t speak that way, because he didn’t view her with that same detached distaste with which he viewed everything else and she knew it!

"Oh," she said instead, quietly. Meekly.

And his dull eyes swept from her, to the food pointedly, and back again.

"I cannot wait here all evening," he continued, "I have more important things to do than babysit. Don't make me feed you again."

And again, she was meek. Meek as a mouse. Squeak Squeak.

Her mouse-limbs were heavy, unwilling to cooperate with her mind's instructions, but she moved to the chair, and sat down all the same.

A knife and fork today, she noted. Western food.

They were cool in her meek little paws.

As she ate obediently, she wondered why she was expecting him to act any differently at all. After all, he wasn't human.

He wasn't Kurosaki.

The food tasted like cardboard, but she wouldn't have enjoyed it even if it was the most sumptuous of meals.

He left, as soon as the last bite touched her lips.

Ahem.

The odd sound pulled Orihime from the lucid, dreamy state she was basking in.

She groaned a little, and buried her face in her pillow. It was a little harder than she remembered.

A-Hem.

It came again. She groaned, louder this time, and burrowed as deeply as she could into the bed. It was the same, every morning.

"Tatsuki," she muttered groggily, "I don't want to go today."

And so it began.

Orihime steeled herself as best one could when one is still mostly asleep. And for good reason, for usually at this point, Tatsuki would rip the covers off of Orihime's prone form. This violent manoeuvre would be accompanied by rather loud shouting about how the best student in school shouldn't be lazing about in bed all day, and hey, look, I've bought some lunch that my mother made. Won't that be nice?

Of course, after much complaint (and the reminder that Ishida was the first student now), Orihime always caved, and got up. This was usually because, if she didn't, Tatsuki would get her up.

The promise of homemade bento didn't exactly harden the deal, either.

But right now Orihime really didn't want to get up, so she clung onto the bedspread as tightly as she could and silently willed her weight to quadruple. Maybe Tatsuki would give up after a while, and climb into bed with her. They could spend the day watching cheesy action movies, and perhaps even go out for ice cream. That would be nice.

After a few moments, the yanking of the bedcovers and the caterwauling still hadn't commenced. This was puzzling. Welcome, but puzzling all the same.

Wondering why it seemed that Tatsuki had already given up, even without the tug-of-war, Orihime cracked her eye open to see what was going on.

And let out a rather startled squawk.

The first thing that came to her mind was Tatsuki, what have you done to your face?"

But then everything came back to her with the subtlety of a falling rock. She wasn't in her bed in Kurakura town, avoiding school. She was in Hueco Mundo, her best friend wasn't there, and everyone who had come to save her was dead.

Her heart sunk into her stomach.

Blearily she looked around the room. Two silver trays were stacked haphazardly upon the small table behind a male Arrancar, who was looming over her, looking unimpressed.

"Your bath is ready," he told her in clipped tones, and then gestured with his arm for her to follow him to the bathing area.

Bath? It's noon already? She would have opened her mouth to ask him how long she was asleep for, but she was getting to the point where she knew better now. He wouldn't have replied.

She peeled herself out of the bed, rubbed her eyes with a dirty sleeve, and trudged behind him, her heart like lead.

Nothing like a pleasant wake up to make you feel wonderful.

Bathing, however, was the balm for a wounded countenance.

Orihime didn't feel better, but the tears that had been prickling the back of her eyelids had ceased, and her heart had crawled back up into her chest where it sat rather despondently.

Her fingers were tangled in her damp hair, and she lay on her too hard, too cold bed, eyes flicking over a ceiling that had become much too familiar. Orihime found herself wishing, beyond reason, that someone was there with her, just so she didn't have to be alone.

She was so very, very alone.

Where was Kurosaki?


The moon in Hueco Mundo always seemed muted, as if the strain of always shining without pause took its toll, and rendered it dull.

It never changed. It was always the half crescent, the flash of smiling teeth in the night. Orihime always got the feeling that it wasn't a nice smile, but the Cheshire smirk of somebody that was about to do something wrong, under the cover of darkness.

Time fell into itself. She never knew the precise when, she only knew that it was morning when they bought her breakfast, noon when they bought her lunch and gave her her bathing time, and time to go to bed when they took away what was left of her evening meal.

There were no days, not anymore. The constant night that snuck in through her window squatted on the edge of her conscious like a decrepit gremlin. She didn't know times any more than she knew the name of each and every star that didn't shine here, in a place that she was beginning to think, with much trepidation and more than a little suspicion, was hell.

It was funny. She had always thought hell to be red and full of flames, run by a little guy with a pitchfork and a goatee. Instead, it was lorded over by a handsome young-looking man with a smile that could melt any heart.

The door opened, a dry hiccup, and two Arrancar, dressed in solemn white entered without ceremony. They placed her silver tray upon her white table and left, with the severity of a funeral procession.

Ulquiorra followed them in, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his pants. He too, said nothing to her.

It was bedtime soon.


Breakfast was egg rolls. Finally.

They were plain, without sweet bean paste. But it was better than toast.

She had begun to watch the sands outside of her room (cell). They were the only thing that ever changed; the harsh winds pushing them around with the smug indifference of a schoolyard bully.

Still, she found it comforting.


There was a crack in her ceiling. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it earlier. Perhaps it was new.


That night Ulquiorra didn't come. Orihime ate every last bite, just to prove that she didn't need him to babysit her.

Never mind that she was full after the first two mouthfuls.


He came the next night, taking up his customary position close to the door, as if she was ill and highly contagious, and he didn't want to get any closer than he had to.

She ate quietly, the occasional clink of cutlery against china almost unnaturally loud in the sombreness.

It was almost oppressive. She never liked the quiet. Orihime had always associated silence with loneliness. It had been quiet after her parents left (just like that). Then her brother had made things noisy again, filled her life with yellow laughter and bright, bright love. But then he went away too, and it had been even quieter than before. Yet here, in Hueco Mundo, the silence was the worst.

"Your hole," she said, suddenly. "It's there to show that your heart is gone, isn't it?"

She dimly remembered being told so, most likely by Rukia, but at this moment she found she would appreciate a conversation. Any conversation. All conversation. It was too dull, too quiet here. She didn’t like the quiet.

But he wouldn't take the bait. His silence was frigid. But she refused to give up. Not just yet.

"I was told that it's where the wound was that killed you." And then she thought about it. "But what about people that die of old age? Where is their hole?"

"Be quiet and finish your meal," Ulquiorra told her.

She did.

As she put down her knife and fork (she'd never understand why she was given those most of the time, she much preferred chopsticks - western cutlery was awkward in her hands), another question came to mind.

"Do you remember dying?"

It was a morbid question, but somehow, in this place that reeked of death it seemed more appropriate than any askance of the weather. It wasn’t as if it changed, anyway.


He said nothing, and she resigned herself to him ignoring her again. Instead, she tidied up the remnants of her plate.

"A part of the price of becoming an Arrancar is trading every memory of your human life." He said, unexpectedly.

She was surprised, more by him answering than by the answer itself. She wondered if she could give up the memories of her life, when she died. If she could give up the memories of Kurosaki.

"What's the full price?" She asked, overwhelmingly curious.

"Unwavering loyalty," Ulquiorra's voice was flat, indicating the end of the conversation.

It made sense. After all, she had doomed herself to an unknown period of isolation because she refused to give Aizen hers.

Orihime was silent, for a while.

She packed up the small platter, the glass, the jug, making as much noise as possible, breaking up the quiet. The pile of dishes that she made teetered precariously, but when she tried to rearrange it, it nearly fell, and after steadying it, Orihime figured it was probably best left to its own devices.

Plus, Ulquiorra would probably tell her off if she broke anything.

A thorough examination of the small tower reassured her that everything was steady...well, steady enough, and shoving her hands on her hips, she nodded in satisfaction.

And then it was quiet again.

“What does it feel like?” She said, suddenly.

“What does what feel like?”

She knew that he hated questions, and he was probably getting annoyed with her, but curiosity overwhelmed her anyway. She had to know. Just like she had to know whether the puppy she had seen was as soft as it looked, or whether leek tasted good in pancakes (it did).

She was walking towards him, and her heels clicked loudly, echoing. They sounded like determination.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Three times (There’s no place like home).

“A Hollow hole,” she said, and she was right in front of him, and her little paw, as bold as a lion’s, was outstretched towards him.

He tried to step back, to retreat from her questing fingers, his eyes slightly wide with surprise, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Her fingers swiped the inside of that expanse of flesh that was not, they swiped the inside of nothingness. No, not nothingness. There was something there, but it was something repulsive. Something horrible. Something that her soul protested against.

It screamed, and her body thrummed in time with it. It was wrong, it was revolting. It felt like it wanted to suck her in, to force her to become one with the nature that was hollow. That was Hollow.

A black hole, a Black Hole. The desire to be filled, to be whole (hole). It hungered for all of her goodness, all of her purity. She knew this without a doubt. It hungered to take it all, to consume her. To consume everything.

She cried out.

The sound mingled with his hiss, his choked gasp.

He jerked away, short of throwing himself backwards away from her, and she snatched her fingers away, as if she had been burned. In a way, she had been.

The other hand was clamped against her mouth, to fight away the nausea. Sickness. The tips of the offending digits tingled with wrong. Her entire body burnt with the wrong.

She wiped her fingers against the material of her jacket, as if she could wipe away that feeling, that utter horror that had flooded her upon touching the evidence of his hollowness. His Hollowness. His body’s need to consume all that was decent, to make it like he was.

And her heart was full of dismay, as she stared at him, as if she had only finally begun to understand the nature that was Hollow.

And in truth, she had.

His jaw was clenched. His eyes were tight at the edges.

“Do not ever try to do that again,” he said, flatly. "Do not ever touch me again."

She was overwhelmed with guilt. She felt as if she had peeked into his personal life, as if she had opened the door to his soul, opened his personal diary, so to speak, and she had read in there all of the darkness that he had become (or always was?).

“I’m sorry,” She tried to say, but the words came out stuttered, unfinished.

“I am not something you can soften, to win over with wiles.”

And she didn’t understand. His words were puzzling, hurtful, confusing. And he, perhaps, read in her face her bewilderment, because he made a sound of disgust.

“You stupid woman, you don’t even know what it is you have done.”
And she didn’t. But she straightened her back, tall against his attack, because she knew she was not stupid.

He turned his back abruptly, as if he could no longer stand the sight of her.

He stalked out, the door opening to receive him with that grind. “You are foolish. You attempt to forget that I am a monster, but it was you who labelled me as such in the beginning.” His words were cold, a dash of ice water. Words she had uttered, he threw back at her with a vindictive delight.

And she stood there, her back still pointlessly straight, a ramrod of iron, of something resembling self pride. But her heart was sinking, slowly, because she had witnessed, firsthand, that the words she had uttered, those words she had regretted, were true.

Every single one of them.