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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 }

But the maid of winter had only just begun her work on that first day of their awakening. For a time, the little butterfly managed to survive alone on her dancing and singing, the melodies of her memory, and a meagre supply of dying petals and souring berries. Long hours did she slumber, happy in her dreams, where she and her kindred hand in hand shared stories and basked in the radiance of their beautiful wings. On later days, it was rare for her to wake at all, as first came the rains, and then the snows, but when waking and trembling might have shattered her body, she yet found some strength to sing.

Yet the star in the sky ever watchful, as both his promise and his heart close-held him, sighed each day more and more deeply, for he knew that voice so precious to him was in every hour growing weaker and weaker, and fallen further in love he pined for the dream to once more live true: the dream of his lovely little maiden dancing.

And when, late one night, the butterfly awoke, both inside and out racked by waves of shivering, and in that moment when she turned to look up at him with eyes clear reflecting so perfectly his image, though haloed by her tears, he alone in all the universe heard her make her final wish.

And he thought of the sun, an elder brother, who had shone so brightly for being so near, who had given light and life to all life before following the horizon into another hemisphere, and he knew in that moment before love’s eyes closed that he held the power — the gift — of salvation, if he could only make it there.

Determined he would shine in place of the sun — if only for her survival, that her wish and her beauty may yet live to grow, such would be more than enough — he whispered, soft but firm, to the heart of the night, “To tame the trembling of my beloved’s heart, to grant such desire in the purity of its form, I rescind my throne in heaven from this moment on — for the wish that has been made, do I choose now to fall.”

And the stars around him trembled together as the veil of indigo began gently to tear, and they sang both a verse of sorrow and elation, for each held their own newest brother soul-dear.

But when the vent in the fabric of night gaped open, the star sailed on through without hesitation, beginning his fall with a happy sigh, before the entire sky quivered, and was made whole again. On and on and on did he fall, forever unable to comprehend such a distance, and he arrived without ceremony, landing on a stem of the dormant rosebush, just a little way from where the butterfly had made her bed. Instantly he set about sparkling and twinkling and burning gentle fire with every ounce of his strength, yet the dawn did not come, nor the ice melt, nor the temperature rise around his sleeping princess.

Soft came the laughter, but more than audible its note of mockery, growing louder and louder with his every attempt. Eventually a voice whispered through tiny shards of ice, “Poor baby star, how you underestimated my strength.”

“Who’s there?” hissed the star, but even as he gave form to the question, its answer was rising all around him, gaining shape from the frosty air. Sure enough, soon the maid of winter embraced him, her merest caress numbing his heart and stealing away his breath.

“Oh, you know who I am, yes you do, baby star, but what are you, and who are you, to make such a vain wish to be here? Compared to the sun, you shine only as a candle, and even the sun is unwelcome in my realm. What hope does that leave such a poor baby star, I wonder? Stars and butterflies die as equals here.”

Laughing still, she began to disperse, allowing the first silver lights of day to slowly creep on in.

Now all alone with his sleeping beloved, the star cried, but never once did he cease glowing for her, with all his heart, albeit very faintly.

✿ ✿ ✿

The Butterfly Vow by lilimist   Page 8 of 16   writing

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