Ulquiorra sat down at the nearest table, working hard to ignore the thoughts in his head, and succeeding as he opened the book and began to read. He'd never bothered much about Alexandria's own history when he was younger. The Schiffer family had been powerful, once upon a time, and still retained much of the lands and properties into the modern era. His father had managed the estate for a living, a task which had required employees, and lawyers, and sometimes more of his father's time than Ulquiorra had appreciated, as well as a good head for numbers, and a lot of patience.
The properties had all been transferred to Ulquiorra recently, and Ulquiorra hadn't touched any of it. He didn't wish to. He'd never been back to the family house, or the house his Grandparents had inhabited, and had no wish to visit those, either. Things would have changed, and Ulquiorra would rather preserve his memory of things as they had been.
As much as L had succeeded in tainting that.
He paid Zexion no heed as the Alchemist rose and moved past Ulquiorra's own niche among the bookcases.
The text was in Old Rozarrian, and Ulquiorra read the language fluently, perhaps a little more fluently than he spoke it, especially these days. He frowned a little as he had that thought; he'd spoken it a lot, back then, with friends, and with L.
He had no one to speak it with any more.
His reiatsu wobbled again at the thought, and Ulquiorra closed his eyes, as his chest and throat tightened again. He'd never cried for his parents. He refused to cry now. He took a sharp breath, which seemed so loud in the silence of the library, and forced himself to take a slower, deeper breath, forcing his reiatsu slowly back under control.
He looked back at the book, at the characters lined so neatly on the page, and then looked away, exhaling slowly.
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Date: 2013-07-18 12:21 am (UTC)The properties had all been transferred to Ulquiorra recently, and Ulquiorra hadn't touched any of it. He didn't wish to. He'd never been back to the family house, or the house his Grandparents had inhabited, and had no wish to visit those, either. Things would have changed, and Ulquiorra would rather preserve his memory of things as they had been.
As much as L had succeeded in tainting that.
He paid Zexion no heed as the Alchemist rose and moved past Ulquiorra's own niche among the bookcases.
The text was in Old Rozarrian, and Ulquiorra read the language fluently, perhaps a little more fluently than he spoke it, especially these days. He frowned a little as he had that thought; he'd spoken it a lot, back then, with friends, and with L.
He had no one to speak it with any more.
His reiatsu wobbled again at the thought, and Ulquiorra closed his eyes, as his chest and throat tightened again. He'd never cried for his parents. He refused to cry now. He took a sharp breath, which seemed so loud in the silence of the library, and forced himself to take a slower, deeper breath, forcing his reiatsu slowly back under control.
He looked back at the book, at the characters lined so neatly on the page, and then looked away, exhaling slowly.