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“But I am trapped, too. We are all victims of the masks we wear, the roles we play, our lives nothing more than poorly scripted parts in a play written by those with the ultimate power, the overseers, the decision makers. Every cog fits, everyone has their place, desired or not, everything runs smoothly like a well-oiled machine.
But even machines can break down.”
(lilimist/Narcissism)

A romantic creation myth about a butterfly who wakes up from her cocoon too late and a star who falls to earth to save her.

{ first written & released by Vixen Phillips in 2004 }

Upon hearing their wishes revealed by such sweet speech, “Yes! Yes!” cried each in turn, and one by one let the wind give life to their own wings.

But the first butterfly yet lingered on in concern, until his kin to sight were almost stars of the day, no more than shards and speckles of rainbows, growing ever distant and dim. Then he asked the daffodil to watch for his sister, and to let her know they had followed the stream, and he flew about them both in a final circle while the flower curtsied and made her promise to keep. (It is possible, even for a flower, that she really did love him.)

That first day of awakening and many thereafter brought much joy to the butterflies who brought joy to many. They discovered cousins among the dragonflies, danced to the songs of the birds, carried love-trinkets from flower to flower, and drank themselves dizzy on abundant nectars sweeter and richer than the wines of today’s connoisseurs. Each day and every enveloped their world in idle fancies and rituals to beauty that would have seen their weaver proud. Yet on each day, just after dawn, the first butterfly ever returned to the daffodil, both to inquire after his little sister, who still lay slumbering, and to bring the flower happy news of their world. (Even for a butterfly, he had grown to love her too.)

On one occasion, however, the daffodil coughed hesitantly and murmured, “The stream told me something the other day… about a rosebush he met in the forest nearby.” As she looked so sad, the butterfly had to press her gentle so she might continue her tale. “The rosebush, he says, has many flowers, scented more sweet if as golden as my own.” Blushing shyly, she went on, “But one of these flowers still sleeps in its bud — never once has it bloomed. Never once has it woken.”

After another pause, she concluded in a whisper, “He told me the rosebush says that flower will never wake, because… because it is dead. Do you… do you think…?”

But, catching a glimpse of the expression crossing her beloved’s face, she broke off with a sob.

Now the butterfly kissed her gently, startling her from her tears, and smiling at her bravely said only, “There are no petals in all the world as beautiful or golden or scented sweet as yours. Tell the stream I said he was wrong.” And he soared up into the skies, before she could even smile for him; soared up to the highest branches of all the forest, to ponder and to dream, though his heart felt so heavy. But still, he comforted himself with the knowledge that he had never once lied to the daffodil, therefore the stream must be wrong. His little sister was not a rose but a butterfly after all, just slumbering far too long, just like those maidens in the tales the nymphs of the mountains told when they came down to bathe in the twilit pools by that very same stream.

One day she would wake, he felt it in his heart, and even more beauty would lighten this world.

One day…

✿ ✿ ✿

One day, in fact, a cold chill began to settle heavy in the air, and the butterflies and flowers both to feel weary in their forms. Some of the flowers no longer arose with the sun’s weakening light at all, and the hours for dancing and fluttering idle were eroded more and more by a lingering drizzle. But the daffodil kept her promise though she shivered in the cold; though the whisperings of the earth were calling her home, gifting her knowledge of the change fast overcoming their world. And still, the last cocoon lay dormant.

Several afternoons later, when the rain had cleared, granting time enough to dry out his wings and allow him safer passage, the first butterfly flew back to his flower, for which she was gladdened, for she had sorely missed him. And on this occasion, as he brought no news, she gave him her own, embracing him close.

The Butterfly Vow by lilimist   Page 2 of 16   writing

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