Rewind

Our life is a midnight cabaret,
our faces opera masks.

ii.

The sky of Las Noches rolls above him as he defies the air current, his landing marked by a loud thump and scattering dust and splattering blood. His breath comes out in short rasps as if his lungs have been clogged with ashes. The faint beating that resounds from deep inside him grows weaker and weaker, the clock ticking away towards midnight, the curtain call.

His electric emerald eyes remain unwavering — as always — fixated on the solemn firmament that returns his stare with unapologetic growl, apathetic darkness. He blinks once, and the sky is still there. Of course it is. This is the real truth of Hueco Mundo after all: withered sand that clings for mercy, bent stalks and trees that bear nonexistent fruits, white castle built on empty grandeur, skyscrapers that reach out to nothingness, and the sky that is not beautiful cerulean but forever ebony, made of carcasses of black sin.

This is the real world they, the Espada, the hollows, have always lived in. Unforgiving, callous, red and black intermingling with each other — nothing like the azure sky beneath him, artificial and dazzling with white lies. This perpetual darkness is what they're used to seeing and living under. The watchful eye that always surveys them as they hunt and kill one another, evolve and become stronger.

Las Noches is an upgrade from what they used to call home. A contrived luxury, a castle that cradles their dreams and ambitions and hides their killing intentions behind pure white. They have masks, embroidered signs of their identity, who they're supposed to be and power and kill kill kill.

Ulquiorra is one of them, the macabre dancers who slaughter and bask in blood, reds shining gold and melting against skin. They are the elite soldiers Aizen-sama has picked, the ones given power and trust and freedom and purpose. The stray wolves that no longer need to weep forlornly in the middle of the night.

But every show must come to an end, and his curtain call is now. He managed to regain his balance and is standing on his feet again, his visage showing nothing but impassiveness. And the end is near, pulsating and throbbing and spreading in his blood like virus, cackling joyously as it eats his existence away.

His verdant eyes inadvertently avert towards her again, her sunset locks billowing in the sandy breeze, clashing against the dark background. Bringing this woman here has unwound the cataclysm harbored by fate, their — his — end. She's supposed to be a pawn, another toy to Aizen-sama's collection. When she first stepped into Las Noches, he could feel tension shaking the air around her, her terror perceptible.

Ulquiorra used to believe that he could break Inoue Orihime, whom he preferred to address just as "woman". He used to believe that he could dress her up like the rest of them, glowing pristine in her misery, clad in white, weathered clothes — their beautiful broken marionette, the ragged doll pulled around by strings, dancing and falling and breaking like porcelain.

He used to believe that he could engulf her with darkness, dimming the glow on her eyes, the sunset on her hair, plunging her emotions into oblivion, suturing fake smiles on her face. He wanted her to cower before him, subdue, succumb and blend with the nothingness of this castle, white and stark and meaningless. He wanted to make her forget the human world, its resplendent skies; he wanted to paint her life black.

He wanted her to wither, torn petals that would reek of bitter past and unattainable dreams. Decayed and putrid and dead dead dead.

But she never did, never does.

"Are you scared, woman?"

A hand reaching out to him. A pair of eyes swimming in an ocean of emotions. "No, I'm not."

Inoue Orihime doesn't wilt; she blossoms here in Las Noches. Thriving among bent stalks and fruitless trees and bitter sand and haunted castle. And her scent wafts over him, butterflies fluttering and rippling across his pallid skin. He feels oddly warm.

The show must go on, with or without him. Before he fades, his eyes capture Orihime's figure for one last time, her hand still extended towards him, the ghostly towers and skies looming behind her — yet they're no longer murky. Something seems to have set the heavens ablaze, a conflagration of aureates and oranges gilding the sky gold.

His midnight has ended. He can feel his opera mask breaking.

"…I see."

The dawn has finally come.

And here in his hand, is a petal of her blossom — self, heart.

a/n: Happy Birthday, Ulquiorra! May you come back to us. ;-;
Sorry for the late update, I've been held up by my IchiRuki stories. Also, I've been contemplating on my next installments... would you prefer AU or IU? I've been thinking to throw some AU stories into this collection, and even though this was written for the 30angsts challenge on LJ, I think I'll derail from track. Screw that. I'll write whatever I want. XD;
Thanks very much for reading, reviews would be greatly appreciated! Please tell me what you think?

— Ryfee