1. Nine Lives

There she went over the sandy slope, carried out of his life again over another man's shoulder.

Again.

Grimmjow tasted the Hueco Mundo desert sand in his mouth, could feel it blowing into the gaping wound at his shoulder where his arm had been ripped away. It should have been the priority pain in his mind and body, but watching Orihime disappear with Ichigo was far more excruciating.

In the gust of sand that drifted between him and the departing figures, they disappeared completely. It was always the same. He always remembered her too late, and she, him. Just once he wanted to recall their former lives before she was whisked from his grasp.

Maybe there weren't lives. Maybe it was just one. Maybe he just kept retelling their histories together over and over to himself, changing details, trying to round out their time together.

Or, maybe she'd never really been his.

Maybe she really did belong to that maggot Kurosaki.

The sand cleared and Grimmjow could see the top of her auburn hair disappear over a dune. He wished he had the strength to grin, watching her fiery hair set over the curve of sand like a setting sun.

He tried to mutter a curse, but his throat was too dry. No, if he had any strength left, he'd crawl to his feet and wrestle her away from that shinigami.

He wasn't sure if he'd closed his eyes or not, but his vision grew black, turning his thoughts inward. He didn't know why he'd remembered her so late this time – if indeed there had been other times – but it was too late.

Maybe it was because of that bat Ulquiorra, always flapping about her, cluttering up her thoughts, acting pathetic so that she would lean kindly to him. Or maybe it was because that bastard Aizen was so smooth and calculating that remaining the Sixth Espada had become nearly a full-time occupation.

Grimmjow lost count of the maybes and sighed, a sound that mingled with the blood filling his throat, feeling himself sink into the sand. His only company in misery was his gaping arm socket and thoughts on a war not well-fought.

If he had another chance, another life to spend finding her and making her his again, he vowed he would get to her quicker, let nothing stand in the way.

Maybe she'd remember him quicker next time – time enough for them to start again, with each other, and shut everyone else out. Now the sand stuck in his open wound began to etch like the crystal glass shards he felt in his torn memory.

She hadn't remembered him at all this time.

Damn thick skull of hers, he thought. That's what it was.

It couldn't be that shinigami maggot...