Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach or any of the characters or setting that Tite Kubo created.

Setting: This story is slightly AU. There are shinigami and Hollows, although they're really only mentioned briefly, and the whole thing is futuristic . . . maybe.

Author's Note: I hope you enjoy reading this story! And, since I have nothing else to say, I'll be quiet and let you read . . .

Fragile as the Wings of a Butterfly
~ Nothing is Eternal

Prologue: All I Hold in my Hands

When he met her, his whole world was changed forever. She showed him things he never could have even dreamed about, both the good, and the bad as well. They formed a bond, the type that can never be broken, no matter how hard the times they go through become. They created dreams, imagined futures that were all different . . . except for one thing.

In every one of their fanciful musings . . . they were always together. Side by side, whether it was fighting, dancing, laughing, or even arguing. And in their dreams, they couldn't see what lay ahead on fate's path, but they could always see the other beside them, always feel the other's hand in their own.

So why did this have to happen?

Always and forever, that was the silent promise. She was technically a spirit, a shinigami tasked with handling the Hollows, and sending the lingering souls of the dead to the Soul Society. He was a human, a substitute shinigami, partly even one of the Hollows, and he always fought to protect. But, despite any difference they had, and there were quite a few, they understood each other perfectly.

So why, after everything they'd been through, did that have to happen?

The number of injuries, the blood spilling from open wounds, the pain only half hidden in dull eyes, everything was bearable when they were together. The agony eased just by the other's presence. Protect . . . fight . . . the adventures they'd shared, along with their other friends, were things one might expect to find in a fantasy storybook. She was there to keep everyone optimistic, and in line. He was there to shield his friends as best he could.

But in the end . . . he couldn't do a thing to help her, could he?

Sometimes the things that shatter your world are the ones you never expected would even come anywhere near to hurting you. The tragedies you didn't even think were possible, considering who and what you were. Sometimes a deadly sharp katana isn't the way to protect the ones you love. Sometimes there is no way to save the one person who holds your heart. Sometimes . . . although it hurts and you cry hopelessly . . . the only thing you can do, is hold that person tightly. Even as they fade away before you, even as your dreams come crashing down, shattering into pieces . . . even as your heart breaks, all you can do is watch.

When you look now, what is it that you see?

What he holds in his hands, careful as if it might break into a thousand pieces . . . what he always wants to hold forever . . . she is a butterfly. Not the small, colourful creatures that drift along wind, perching upon blooming flowers . . . and not the black jigokucho, the hell butterflies, either. She is the embodiment of easy grace, elegance, beauty . . . petite, dark haired, and pale . . . a different kind of butterfly. One which has escaped its cage and flown to freedom upon fragile gossamer wings.

Never touch the wings of a butterfly . . .

So she sits listlessly, staring from the window into a rain filled sky, broken wings spread behind her, fine and shadowy black. Her eternity is coming to an end, her wings are disintegrating, her soul is fading . . .

All he holds in his hands . . . what will be left when she is gone?

Broken butterfly wings . . . an ended forever . . . fragile memories of the past. Something no one wants to be given. But there is nothing to be done, because there are no words to express the aching loss. She no longer sits by her window, her short while longer is over, but to him, she had already gone, already flown away on her torn wings . . . flown away to another world, somewhere where he cannot follow her.

Like smoke drifting away on the wind, like crystal glass shattering, like grey clouds releasing the rain . . . there is an end to eternity, and the river of pain that remains . . . it will wash away everything that he held in his hands, and grasp hungrily at the sorrow in his heart.

Sometimes there is no reason in this world, and there is nothing that can be done but to hold tight whatever is left, clutch those feelings to your chest, and continue on fate's path . . .