Butterfly || Open
If someone were to describe Alisa at face value, one might say she was the type to have a fondness for butterflies and rainbows. It wasn’t a lie, but though she held an aesthetic appreciation for the feminine things in life, her existence decidedly wasn’t butterflies and rainbows material. A gentle soul, an empathetic individual, her sadness could creep up on her at any moment.
Today, it was a butterfly with a broken wing. It’s a beautiful colour, the vibrant orange hue of a monarch’s wings, captured her eye as it crawled across her park bench. Alisa’s compassion lead her to feeling sad over this little creature, which should’ve already flown south for the winter. She wonders if such fragile creatures could feel pain– its wing hangs on by a thread.
Alisa’s hands are small and gentle as she scoops the creature into her palms, and as though it knows what her intentions are, the butterfly stalls within her warm hands. It’s a difficult spell to learn, something considered just as difficult as stitching the wing together with a needle and thread herself, but Alisa has an unwavering faith for the Goddess and this spirituality afforded her liberties when it came to the healing of her creatures.
Summoning the light within her heart and allowing it to float to the surface, she watched carefully as the wing mended itself back together with an intricate beauty. Thousands of microscopic feathers all weaving into place, and it seals back onto itself like tape and paper.
The butterfly’s wings flicker experimentally, and it flutters slowly back into the sky, the colours of fall in her vision and a sweet taste on her mouth. Perhaps she should consider taking up a part-time job at the hospital…
If someone were to describe Gelwein at face value, they would probably describe him wrong. He found it useful to be whatever a person needed him to be, upon meeting them. That is, if they appeared to be worth his time. Acting the part of a caring, sympathetic person was, after all, an exhausting bit. It was only worth putting on such airs if he was going to get something out of it- or, on the rare occasion he felt like humoring someone. But even then, it was with the expectation that he might one day get something out of the exchange.
Today was such a day, that Gelwein felt in oddly good spirits. Enough so, that he was able to give at least a perfunctory acknowledgement towards any stranger that wished him a good day. He had a sort of auspicious feeling, one that he had come to trust over the years. He was going to find something interesting today. He was certain of it.
And find something he did. Throughout his many years of studying magic, he had developed a sense for it. The ability to detect it- to the point where, should he focus his attention, he could roughly detect the sort of magic a person possessed, and its potential strength. Many of these magics, he had dabbled in, in some form or another. However, there was one type that, although powerful, he had never been able to create on his own.
Healers were a unique breed. There were theories that a person’s personality could influence what sort of magic might inherently manifest inside that person. Although a subject of much debate, the strongest argument towards the veracity of such a theory was how healers always seemed to have a strong sense of empathy and compassion towards others. They tended to be selfless and worked hard for the benefit of others. So much so, that Gelwein couldn’t help but see it as a waste. For example… Having tracked down the source of magic he’d sensed in the area, he found it to be a young woman, healing a butterfly. Imagine, wasting one’s magic on an insect. It truly was a shame… and yet, an inviting opportunity. If this girl was willing to waste magic on a creature that very well could be gobbled up by some bird in the next hour or two… Surely, she would be willing to spare some on other, more productive things. So long as she was convinced.
“Fragile things, butterflies,” he said, walking over to where the girl was standing. Rather than face her directly, he looked up, watching the butterfly flutter off into the sky. “Like many beautiful things, they can be damaged so easily. That one was fortunate, to have a healer like yourself nearby. Of course, just because you healed it, doesn’t mean that it is any stronger. There may be a time when its wing gets damaged again, and no one with your kindness is around. Do you think that setting it free was the right thing to do?”
The butterfly in question flutters magnificently nearby, and while Alisa is fantasizing about things butterflies do-- like collecting pollen with their cute little antennae-- her inner monologue is disrupted by the voice of a second, a voice belonging to a man who looked to be a few years older.
It’s a neatly poised question, and makes her wonder if he happened to be a poet or a philosopher. It’s quite the philosophical question, after all, but Alisa doesn’t hesitate with her soft spoken reply and sweet smile-- like honey on toast.
“Of course. Isn’t it better for a wild thing to stay free and beautiful, than capture something beautiful and watch it wither in a cage?”
There’s something about the question that has her thinking, but it doesn’t occur to her that the other options might include death by creature (or a merciful death by her hand, nonetheless). Thinking about death at length was a recipe for sadness and trouble, even if she held many a funeral procession as a nun.
“If magic is an effortless and semi-finite resource, doesn’t it just make sense that I use it on the Harvest Goddess’s creatures, weak and strong alike? Even the most unbreakable things need a soft touch now and again.”