Sommerfugl

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Bleach.

Author's Note: This was written quite some time ago so some aspects of it may deviate from the actual Bleach storyline. Bear with me here.

Have you ever stood idly and observed a drowning butterfly? Acknowledged the water that entrapped so small a body in the firmness of its grasp; water that would otherwise be life-giving, cleansing and pure; water that would make heavy a pair of fragile wings, and seek, in due course to rob them of the ability of flight...

You'd have acknowledged the futility of its struggle. For such is the weight of infinite purity, that grace is so torn from the bearer of it, that the fight to free itself of the burden would succeed it only to fail and fall back down.

Despite his noble upbringing, the prospect of receiving her as family had never fazed him.

Looking past the veil of convention and false pretenses, a subordinate gained for the good of the clan was nothing more than another something to be expended. The title of little sister? Simply a branding. The girl, this… child, this lackluster innocent, small in stature and of distasteful birth, with ill-prominent features and an uncommanding presence, she was disposable, if not for his intended purpose for her.

And yet, might you have then been entranced by the mad flutter of desperate wings? As they flung glistening beads of crystal liquid up and around. Did you stand in awe of such splendor? Of the colours that you would have seen mesh and blend with each frantic flap. The vibrant reds and blacks and yellows and greens that do, in synchronization, make finally a dull brown?

She had known of her purpose in the agreement. And yet she'd accepted.

He had not respected her for that.

Brave. That's what his advisors had called her, because she had willingly obliged to the potential forfeit of her freedom. But what she'd passed off as courage toward them, he'd seen as brash stupidity stemmed from adolescent loneliness and a need for familial belonging. He knew the girl had not known her parents.

So he'd associated this reasoning to her later actions.

To the way she forced countless smiles that he did not return, to how she trained hard for positions that she could not attain, and then to why she punished herself inwardly for expectations that she could not live up to. It would have been pitiful to watch so he hadn't bothered to try. Neither had he said a word to deter her ongoing struggle to gain his approval. Far had it been from him to try and dissuade her from the only incentive she'd had to follow her through all the years in his household.

He had never been one for wasted words.

Perhaps you chose then to slow your pace? Stopped to admire such relentless persistence in a wasted tussle with the inevitable. You'd have surely thought it magnificent, and wondered why it were ethical to loathe so poetic a vision.

It hadn't taken her long before she, quite clearly, proved how right he was in thinking her foolish upon their first meeting. First impressions on his part had never been wrong. The girl was far too careless with what she gave of herself to others.

Strong attachments toward her superior had been formed, then abruptly shattered. It broke her, smashed her fragile heart to pieces. Yet she recovered decently, picked the shards clean off the ground and used them to rebuild a sturdier wall than before around herself. The fervour with which she tackled her obligations after that had startled him. So much so that he'd felt the first unfamiliar inklings of satisfaction concerning her start to creep up on him.

Irony was not something he encountered often, but he found himself inclined to liking it.

It would be wise then, to savour that feeling if you must. For such an encounter with absolute beauty is rare; bound to fade in the blink of an eye. Soon, you realize that visions quite easily become nightmares as reality settles in.

He had always considered hatred an emotion that he was above feeling. Petty repulsion stemmed from envy or disgust, at its best, was not something he would allow himself to be subject to. Upbringing had taught him the strength one's feelings could have over his or her actions. And for those precise reasons, had he always held a tight reign over his emotions. It was logical to think that discipline and strength came hand in hand after all.

As such, it might also have been perfectly reasonable, that the second person he had ever come close to hating had been himself. And he loathed the fact that his hatred for an insignificant orange-haired human boy might have been the cause of this.

It was an unwilling breach of discipline on his part. The first in a long time.

And you start to feel a deep and absolute pity.

Weak. Powerless. Dependent.

She had made herself all those things for that boy. She had thrown down everything that had shaped her into what she was since he'd adopted her into his family for that boy. She had lowered her walls for him.

She had made herself weak for nothing more than a petulant mortal child posing as something he was not.

The insult needed remedying. He remained stone-faced even as Senbonzakurafound its way through warm human flesh.

Pity. That the little one continued to fight still, as exhaustion creep slowly to engulf it; as suffocation consume it after.

She does not look quite so broken now. She shows nothing outwardly, in fact. Dead eyes, not unlike his, stare at somewhere to the left of his head. Sunlight from the lone window behind casts an ethereal halo around her. It makes her pupils look many shades darker than what is normal.

It is a misunderstanding to think that his actions had been made out of an obligation to his superiors. Rather, he'd done it for honour, that of his family's and ultimately, it means that he'd done it for her. Because Rukia is his family.

With death, comes penitence. And after that, release. No longer will she be held back by inconsequential defects. No sadness, no longing, no pain, no… anything.

It is not and never had been in his intention to reprimand. And so he says nothing.

Pity. When one final, petty attempt to launch a frail and soaking body into the air should land it finally on its back. Still, unmoving, never to move again. Just as you remain, standing idle.

He feels her empty stare on his retreating back as he turns to leave.

The end