//------------------------------//
// Tortured by the Plague 
// Story: She Brings the Butterflies 
// by Thithle Candytufth 
//------------------------------//

	It was a bright spring morning, but it felt petrifyingly cold.   

The only motion in the town was the flutter of pink wings. Its pulse was the twitching of their antennae. They were perched on every surface, their wings slowly expanding and contracting. There were so many, I could swear I could hear them breathing. The streets were paved with them. They parted as I walked down the dirt road, my stomach twisting at what I saw. 

They uncovered corpses as they flew away. They were lying strewn on the side of the road, or against a building’s façade, or in the windows of the shops. Some were still in carriages, their limp bodies draped out the windows or reclined in the seats. All were unscathed, their bodies perfectly untouched and intact. Children, elders, and friends, all were still. It was a silent, dead, perverse playground for little pink butterflies. I walked through the streets, trying to avert my gaze from the bodies. My heart felt as if gnarled vines were wrapped around it, and with every carcass I saw, they constricted tighter.  

What had caused this? I asked myself this repeatedly, but obviously I had no answer. And there was no purpose to the question. The cause did not matter to me. 

This was my home, once. These were all my friends. I knew each one’s name. I knew each one’s birthday. But they were now just piles of flesh, every last one of them. I shuddered at the thought of my four friends. I did not want to see what happened to them. I felt I knew, though. I could not accept it. I headed for Sweet Apple Acres, though I dreaded what was in store.

There was a disgusting beauty to the sight of the trees. They reminded me of cherry blossoms, with their fluttering soft pink petals. The barn was covered with them. I opened the door and they parted from the walls. The barn had no life within it but the butterflies. I swatted them away with my hoof. I saw four bodies huddled together in a corner. 

My knees quivered. I collapsed before them. Tears ran down my face and fell to the straw beneath my feet. I slid over to her, dragging my body through the dirt and straw. I grasped her orange body with my hooves and screamed. This was not her. This was some husk. The real Applejack was no longer here and left behind this empty replica. That honest heart, the strong frame, the eyes filled with determination, none were present. This thing I was holding in my hooves was not her.  

Something took her from me. Something took all of them.

I dug four holes in front of the barn. I laid them down within and covered them with earth. I placed four misshapen stones at the heads of their resting places. I set off to Twilight Sparkle’s library, prepared for the worst. 

Once again, the butterflies poured out when I opened the door. I found her in her bed, tucked in, with her hooves poking out of the comforter. Her head was propped up on the pillow.  I knew she was gone, but I checked for a pulse anyway. She looked peaceful, and I found some solace in that. Spike, as well, was curled up as if nothing had happened. I thought about how much she had changed, and how far she could have gone. I thought about all the times she used that big brain of hers to dilute my craziness. I had no one to talk to anymore. I had no one to keep me sane. My throat felt clogged, and the tears did not cease. I gently dragged her and Spike out of the oak and buried them beside each other. I placed Elements of Harmony as the headstone. 

I proceeded to Carousel Boutique. Their deaths hurt me enough, but it made me feel even sicker that I was making my rounds, burying the friends I called dear. I had spent my life with these mares. We shared laughter and adventure. Our lives were intertwined. And I selfishly refused to stay by them for their final moments for my own needs. I shook off this thought. If I had not secluded myself, I may have perished to whatever claimed them.

I found Rarity slumped over in her chair in front of her workbench, covered in the accursed butterflies. I swatted away at them, killing some with my hoof. One of her hooves was covering a bobbin wrapped with pink thread. Something told me she was making something for me. I winced and embraced her drooping body. She had given so much to all of us. The only thing I could give her now was a proper burial. I dressed her body with the maroon dress we had made for her. I placed a mannequin with one of her works-in-progress as the headstone.

I had no means of finding Rainbow Dash. I searched the streets, checking the faces of bodies. Part of me was also dreading every time the butterflies flew away from the bodies. I was worried to see her among them. Though that would rid me from the burden of the search, I still possessed a shred of hope for her return.

I found Rainbow Dash draped over a tree limb. I assumed she had been sleeping there. Her body was slouched over, her legs hanging free. I tried to climb up, grasping a lower limb, but I slipped down and fell on my face. I shook off the dirt and smashed my flank into the tree. With each slam, more tears fell from my face. Eventually her body was shaken free, and fell before me with a sickening flop. 

Being interred within the ground was against her nature. She was free, and always moving, bringing color across the sky. And she must have hated that she could do nothing to help us anymore. She did not want to leave us, but whatever forces that caused all of this destruction rent her from our presence. I buried her at the foot of the tree, unable to provide anything more for her.

I returned to the cottage. At this point, and more so than before, I was determined to find her. There was a sliver of hope, but it was a different kind of hope. It was a desperate, terrified hope, which meant I was bound to the woods for the rest of my existence. It was a hope I had to possess. I could not accept losing them all. There was still a chance that she was alive. There was a possibility she may return to her home. 

I placed a candle on the windowsill and lit it. I hoped for it to be a beacon for her return. A single butterfly rose from its perch and fluttered over to the candle. It danced around the flame, its orange light kissing its pink wings. I watched it rise and fall, fanning the faint fire slightly with each flap. I wondered why these terrible butterflies were still here, while the one whom they love is lost within the gloomy forest.

I stared at the window, hoping to see her dandelion face lit gently by the candle. Watching its blurry light, I drifted off to sleep with tears still in my eyes.