She Brings the Butterflies

by Thithle Candytufth

And the Trees Waved Their Heads in Sorrow

A thin crease of bright morning light through the curtains awoke me. I found myself staring at the candle, now extinguished. A pair of scorched wings was lying beside it. Something compelled me to open the window. I whispered her name into the morning air, but felt the sound of my voice consumed by the maze of foliage and drowned in the gloom. I once again envisioned her pale face slowly approaching the pane of glass, staring at me with those large, infinitely kind eyes.

I grabbed the saddlebag, and headed out the door. I kept my head held forward and walked into the forest again, kicking away at the butterflies that covered the grassy ground like despicable delicate autumn leaves.

My mind raced. All of this information scattered around and scrambled about within my head. I thought of the butterflies, the bodies and the friends I once knew. Nothing meant anything. I needed to find her. But I felt as if I could not carry on. Too much had happened. There was a shard of hope, though, and I could not ignore that. It was wedged deep into my eye.

I bemoaned that I had been left in this necropolis, this throne of corpses, all by myself. There was nothing left. There was no one else to help find her. Why was I spared, while all my friends were taken? Why did I have to bear the burden of finding her, and bear the immeasurable pain of waking up every morning and remembering all of my friends had perished? I blamed fate, I blamed Celestia, I blamed the sky and the gloomy forest, and the butterflies.

Part of me wished to be among the dead; the same part of me also wished for the closure of finding her corpse. That would end the suffering and I could live out a less painful existence until I meet them in whatever lies after. I wanted this part of me to disappear, but I knew it was only growing stronger.

I hated hope. I despised that part of me believed finding her was a possibility. It may have been years since I started searching. I wished I could say that I had forgotten why I even began because it had been so long. I wished I could say she did not haunt my mind every second of my life, conscious or not. It was hope that was killing me from the inside.

I had given up on eating, myself, but I had continued feeding her animals with the seemingly limitless supply of seed and kibble she had left behind. My body was weak and everything ached. My stomach felt as if it had receded into my ribcage and twisted around my heart. My mane was matted with sweat, dirt and tears. And none of this mattered to me.

Everything felt cold to me. Despite the cloudless sky and the oppressively bright sun, my skin still shivered. I held my face beneath its seemingly warm light and felt nothing. The trees swayed in the light breeze, as if bowing their heads in mourning.

I heard her voice. I did not make out what she said. It was that hushed, beautifully demure, melodic tone. It swept over me and I felt comfort. I knew it was her. And I knew it was simply the hallucination of my starved, desperate mind. But something about hearing that voice in the silence of the forest gave me solace.

I still saw visions of her. I saw the butterflies flocking around her, shifted by the light zephyrs of her frail wings as she flew. I saw her face, her delicate lips making that wonderful upward curve I had so sorely missed. And I saw her azure eyes, those deep pools of kindness I wished to stare into again. I saw her rosy hair carried by the breeze as she walked beside me. I moved in to embrace her but she faded away before my hooves could touch her.

She was the tree trunks. She was the outline of the branches above me. She was the shadow I cast behind me. She was the hoofprints, the spring violet crushed underhoof, the rustling of leaves, the smell of verbena, the insects, the squirrels, the weeds, the dew, the seasons, the mornings, the nights, the cottage, the hope, the forest, the butterflies.

She was not lost. She was not taken. She was still Ponyville’s, not the Everfree’s. She was still my friend.

Night had once again fallen upon the Everfree Forest. The frigid blackness numbed my hooves. I began walking back, the silence filled with the thought of her voice. I entered the fortress of my hope once again, and lit a candle on the windowsill. Its light reflected on the thin coat of frost that enveloped the glass on the outside.

This horrible nightmare had seemed so very real to me. I thought of the hope. Hope not for her but for the release of death, for the shadow of their dread wings to cast over me and spread their poison. I wished to inhale their vile spores and for my candle to burn out. I begged her to release me from my duties, and from my hope that chained me, be it from death or from her return. But she could not answer me.

I thought for a moment that I should let go. I would not have much longer if I continued this. I have lost her, the warmth, the daylight. All that was left was the gritty blackness and that hope for her return.

I detested these thoughts. I wanted to grasp them by the neck and shake them until they ceased.

I fell asleep, once again praying that my beacon would draw her to her home.

Comments

[Not a brony]

"I'm not happy, Bob. NOT HAPPY."