There was a butterfly, adorned with bruised blues, burnt oranges and snowy whites, perched upon a leaf. Its slow, beating wings were blinking eyes opening and closing to a world of kaleidoscope colour.

Florentine watched the creature and her heart ached. A ghost fluttered in her mind; a butterfly, in every way akin to the one she now watched, except for their patterns.

And one other key element: this butterfly was not bound to her.

Her heart gave a painful throb, a strain against its cage of bone. Flora gasped as homesickness struck leaving her lungs winded with its ferocity.  It was not often that the girl as untamable as the wind, would have such longing to remain in one place. But now, oh now her heart aches to be back in her birth land. Where her Flutterby-butterfly would rest upon her spine with its whisper touch.

Determined, she swallowed down the heat of desire, the urge to pick up her dagger and slice through worlds and find her way home. Again, the blade failed to awaken its magic when roused by its wielder’s thoughts. And again, Flora did not register the continued cold of her dagger, its subtle magic stripped and absent.

The butterfly, disconcerted with the attention of such a large creature, spread its glorious wings flat, a warning – a deterrent. It only made Flora’s heart ache harder – an open wound to bleed, to awaken her at night.

Florentine will still be staring at this small and fragile beast when a stranger finds her. And a tear, a solitary and lonely little thing, will be wiped away with a huff that ruffles the butterfly’s wings and sets it off to find a less disturbed leaf upon which to rest. “You scared it off,” The girl of flowers will quite wrongly, and rather rudely, accuse the stranger. It may set them to think less of her, if not for that small, tremulous waver in her voice.

@Kaladin

this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart