build me up from bones, wrap me up in skin
hold me close enough to breathe me in
She had worried about that damn butterfly far longer than she probably should have. She’s odd like that, soft like that. Danaus gilippus, she has long since decided on its species – how could she have missed the spots? And while she knows it is improper of her to judge the other foals based on one encounter, she had. Those that had wanted to harm the butterfly (to catch it for whatever nefarious purpose they hadn’t divulged), she had dismissed as potential friends in the future. Gloom and doom does not run in her veins, does not make her heart beat faster. She would much prefer to see live, gossamer wings gilded against the sunlight as the butterfly floated on to its next adventure. Ivar had, too. The colt had spoken out against its would-be executioners; Radiant hadn’t forgotten.
He frowns though, at first, and it sinks her heart to see it. Not wanting to be the cause of anyone’s pain or displeasure, she tries to make up whatever ground she’s already lost in such a short amount of time. “Gracious, but that was rather rude of me, wasn’t it?” She ducks her head, shakes it. “It’s just an association. Remarkable how the brain works; it sees boy and thinks butterfly, the singular juncture of our separate lives defined by a symbol. I mean, I see butterflies all the time, but odd what will pop into your head and pass through your lips unregulate – “ she takes a quick breath and finishes, “ted.” Oh, but her rosy cheeks would be even more so if not for the eerie dawn darkness. When she can muster up some semblance of courage, she peers up at his face through her unruly forelock. She smiles, though much more sheepishly now. “Um, Radiant. And yes, I hope so too.”
Odd, she repeats in her head, yeah, you’ve got those bases covered – there’s no doubt in his mind. But if she is nervously long-winded and strange, she is also blessedly resilient. As the slow-pull of the sun from the horizon continues, she will find her legs, so to speak. There is so much more to talk about in the telling light of day versus the spook of the night (monsters are as afraid of the day as she is of the monsters). All of a sudden, she wonders why she’s come here alone at all while the shadows are still so dense. Everyone is a stranger here, even the boy who saved the butterfly. “Do you come here often, Ivar?” She asks, glancing around his monochrome frame to the woods on either side of him. “I don’t leave Tephra as much as I’d like to – as much as I should.”
