A callus brute drying himself off with a towel presented before a standing mirror. That reflection previously brought him shame, of seeing his own-self. Sending him to strike against it... Now, a strange sensation pulsated inside him.
His soul had labor drastic exposures to new sources and foundations. A withering flower... Was being revitalized! Harvesting in the abundance of acquaintances. Recuperating his past with courageousness.
It was strange. Half his being... Was devoid, gone. Fragmented, yet. He didn't feel empty like should've. The mightiest forebear of knowledge on his Sea-Vessel. Imparted him on a spiritual journey. For a Captain who's lost, doesn't help following. Sometimes even leader's need guidance, advisement. Hence why those who have excelled, above come in pairs of insurmountable Crew; who in-turn, became new charts, compasses. The series of eyes that punctured fog.
Captain had found an Inner-Guide, which hatched. Was the symbolism of him... A butterfly fluttered around his room. Where did the connection lay?
The Seeker pondered back. Captain had proved, in his life, those scar's that dressed him. He held wing's but yet wasn't able to fly. These resulted in multiple failures.
The Butterfly had many colors, beyond one. It's pattern was unique, diverse, there was no other like it. But the butterfly couldn't admire its own-self... Only others could.
It became blind. That it received, compliment's gaze's of genuine, unconditional, admiration for it.
As well, the butterfly ran into dangers, when it finally learned how to fly, it grew too close to being snapped by the jaws of carnage, bigger than it. Captain was tasked to watch over it. As essentially, everything shares with it.
If the Butterfly feels pain, so does the Seeker.
If the Butterfly becomes corrupted, its poison won't heal. It'll kill.
Even all those who hold it fond, no matter how delicate...
Every response. It tethered in this world. What you take, has repercussions. A man can be as wicked, as humanly possible. They can go on a genocidal killing spree. Yet, there are those, who may have had a connection with such evil. If that person; died. It would hurt them.
Recreating viciousness; on seas If you take down, a Captain of such magnitude. Not all will follow, which is why most Crew's won't abandon ship even if they, go-down. And in the event-some will keep it alive, rebuilding.
Loyalty can be undying.
The scoundrel, looking over him in this reflection as his Guide, came to shoulder. They stood there and felt.
Captain. Recognized, change, comfort, hope. More than prior.
His feature's of doubt, the wrinkles that came from stress, were being purged.
He felt free. There were many enemies left. The board of a map behind Captain, showed many Red-X's, of travels. Places uncharted, or written too deathly. He turned into a ghost, and hid away. His past brought him into slavery as in being one, or doing the condemning of vile and treacherous unforgivable acts, because the necessity, of feeling like it was required to compare.
Unironically. His worst, enemy outside of himself, was a man of nobility. They fought tirelessly but learned, they were alike, especially now.
The Pirate had responsibilities, left ungoverned.
What he does. Reflects and responds to nature.
The Butterflies life held dependency on being maintained by his own core.
When things make you uncomfortable; holds the solutions of TRUE healing. We of nature; are inclined to not continue. A trick we create by preventing our growth, nurturing.
The Captain... Recalled, everyone, everything.
How he presented himself, conducted, would carry his wings.
The man felt alive; and he wouldn't abandon it.
He withdrew to his dresser and looked through his wardrobe.
Then suited up, it felt uncomfortable, too restrictive.
Something he disliked.
He once felt his Tricorne was a Crown that was too heavy; a burden.
There were many heartbreaks, his heart when was born was small, fragile, insignificant. He was abused, crushed, and given into vices of temporal treatments.
But now, he had help.
The Captain exhaled relief. Seized dressing up. His posture straightened and returned to a bolster of confidence not of something deathly ill! Nothing to mourn! He was above his own mental-anguish.
The steps of cure were here.
Something to behold, like the wing's of a butterfly.
He was living color.
The philosophy of nothing can beat me; only me.
Awoke.
