11.16.2017

Thomelisa Taken, Pt XVI

Or, rather, didn’t stop, per se, but redirected towards my feet rather than somewhere in front of me.  Above me a gibbous moon gave more than enough light to see by, so I scanned the blue and pewter undulations of the bank for a way down.  I didn’t find any obvious trail, but I did notice a little pool, formed where a log had gotten trapped.  And there, caught between some rocks and a branch from the log, was a lone lilypad floating on the silvered surface.  And on that lilypad a small, white shape fluttered lightly in the evening breeze.

“Elisa!” I cried, lunging down the bank towards my daughter, completely disregarding the pain of stones and plants snatching at my flesh.  “Thomelisa!  I’m here!”

The white shape did not move, however, and as I came at last to the water I realized it was not my daughter at all.  It was… a butterfly?  Why on earth would a butterfly be sleeping on a lilypad? I wondered.  Don’t they sleep in flowers?

Perhaps it was dead, not sleeping.  I reached out a finger to nudge it gently, and it raised it’s head weakly.  As it did so, I realized there was something about its torso- something very familiar…

I gasped when I realized what it was: a girdle, braided from three fine threads.  Elisa had woven it for herself this past winter, from the scraps of my embroidery.  The colors were lost in the moonlight, but I knew that during the day one would be red, one blue, and one yellow.

I followed the length of the girdle with my eyes, and found that the other end was tied to the lilypad.  I frowned: that made no sense.  My daughter loved butterflies, and even if was a less-beloved creature, she was not cruel; why would she bind a living thing like this only to abandon it?  The poor thing would die of starvation before the next day was out!

I dropped the mass of lilies in the little pool, and carefully scooped up the lone lilypad that held the butterfly.  The poor thing had laid its head back down, antennae drooping.  I’d need to craft another spell to speak with it, Goddess providing it could live long enough.  Perhaps I should feed and warm it first.

And myself, for that matter.  I would be no good to Elisa if I passed out.

I carried the butterfly back up the bank, far enough away from the water that I could find a reasonably dry patch to settle us in.  I conjured fire from a match, and pulled a bit of honey from my pantry at home.  It wasn’t the same as nectar, of course, but the butterfly didn’t seem to mind overmuch when I offered it some.  I did not untie it yet, however: first I needed to discover what had happened here, and how long ago.

I used the bell again, charging it with my own blood.  The crafting went faster than I expected this time, even tho’ it was a more complex spell, designed to make the understanding go both ways.  Perhaps it was because I had so recently emptied the vessel, but no matter the reason, I was able to once again ring it sooner rather than later.  This time it sounded soft and tinkling, like how you might imagine a butterfly would laugh.

“What happened to you?” I asked.  The butterfly’s wings quivered in surprise.

“Oh!” it said.  “You can speak!  Oh my!”

“For now I can,” I said, trying to keep the desperation from my voice.  “But it won’t last for long, so I need to know what happened- how did you come to have my daughter’s girdle?”

“Oh was she your daughter?” the butterfly sounded delighted.  “I must say, I never would have guessed.  She was so perfectly formed, and you are… very large,” it ended, embarrassed.  I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

“I am aware that my daughter is beautiful.  That does not answer my question- how did you get her girdle?  And where is she now?”

The lovely white wings drooped.

“Taken,” it said, sadly.  “Taken away, and I could not follow because I was tied to the lilypad.  Not that I minded!  She was so delighted by the way I was able to steer the lilypad, and it was a delight to bring her joy.  I just wish she’d had a chance to free me.  I was afraid I was going to starve to death.”

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to snatch at the butterfly.  “Who,” I said.  “Who took her?”

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