A butterfly's wings. What you wouldn't do for a butterfly's wings; the brightly colours like polished gemstones, like the rich threads of a tapestry, so dazzling that they make the rest of the world seem grey, a monotone mass of drabness, where nothing ever happens. What you wouldn't give to have a butterfly's freedom, a butterfly's ability to fly where they choose, to not have to fear the light, to be able to feel the sun beating down on their body and only think of joy. To be able to receive smiles from the people around you, to be allowed to touch the soft skin of their hand, even just for a second. And to be able to fly where you chose without fear of death.
But you're not a butterfly. Your tattered wings are only brown, mud brown, like they were once pure white, but were stained and defiled by years of torment. You don't have the freedom of a butterfly either; where they chase the light, you are forced to sulk in the shadows. Where they can fly wherever they choose, you must hide yourself from the world. And where they receive admiration, you feel only hatred; a deep dark hatred, that tears everything else to shreds, that dominates everything.
But you're not a butterfly. And you never will be.
You'll never remember the look on your parent's faces when you transformed for the first time. You'll never forget the flash of horror, of disgust, of disappointment, that seemed to illuminate the entire room, before it returned to its normal state. It was understandable really; one had been a butterfly, the other a dragonfly. It was only natural that you should have chosen one of their forms. And you wanted to; you wanted it so much. But when your first transformation came, when your body first began to shrink, your fingers turning to claws, wings sprouting from your back, it hadn't ended up that way. And you couldn't really blame your parents for what they felt.
Because you were a moth. And nothing more.
You left home on your sixteenth birthday, wanting to see the world, wanting to make your own path. And on that day, you swore you would never attempt transformation again, that you would accept your human form as your true one. And that you would never let loose the horror that your other side was. You don't know how long you travelled, how long you spent on the dusty path, how many blades of grass rubbed against your sun-kissed legs, ticking the bare skin, how many times the sun rose and sank. But it must have been a long time; your family's home was in the middle of nowhere, an easy place to hide, they'd always said. You didn't feel guilty about leaving them though; since your birth another child had been born. A child they didn't have to be ashamed of, a child whose glistening butterfly body was as beautiful as your moth was ugly. They didn't need you to hang around them, shaming them, humiliating them.
They didn't need a son like you.
Eventually, your trek brought you to a temple. Or at least that was what you thought it was; you'd never actually seen a human settlement before. The building looked old, the sloped roof starting to wear away, the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly, the faces of dragons guarding the entrance slightly deformed. But it was well cared for; the walls recently patched up, the grass around it kept just under control. You pushed the gate open, jumping slightly as it creaked, before stepping inside.
And, inside those walls, you met the most beautiful person in your life. You mistook him for a girl at first glance; his long, pulled back black hair did accentuate the feminine angles of his face. He was thin too, short and prone to wearing the sort of clothing that could easily hide something and consequently made the wearer look like they were doing just that. It took you a few days to figure it out, but by that point, you already knew you were irrefutably in love with him.
His name was Yao Wang, or at least that was what he told you, a priest here. He didn't know quite how long he'd been there, but he was certain it had been at least a few years; running the temple by himself, which had seemed easy enough to start with, but in the past few months had become almost impossible. There was just so much going wrong and he had only one pair of hand with which to fix it. You volunteered your help immediately.
He wasn't lying about it being hard work. But you were made of tougher stuff; used to relying on only your own body strength. Not that made it that much easier; by the end of the day, you were exhausted, clothes sodden with sweat. The day had been hot too, the merciless sun seeming to taunt you, making every load seem just that little heavier. Halfway through cleaning a statue, you decided you couldn't take any more, forcing yourself to take a break. Only a quick one, you reassured yourself.
As it turned out, Yao seemed to have had the same idea, because you found him in the gardens, sitting on a pile of scrap wood. He didn't notice you, a fact that you were actually quite glad of. It meant that you had the opportunity to watch him, watch what his reactions would be to everything. The sun, the enemy of a few minutes ago, lit up the deep brown of his eyes beautifully, the wind tousling with his hair like a cat with yarn. For a moment, everything was perfect. Then, he reached out a hand.
You didn't need to focus on the blur of colour to know what it was. And you felt sick to your stomach just watching it. The smug, self assured flight pattern, the blue hues, like cheap pigments splattered onto rough paper, the self-confidence just filling the air around it; it couldn't be anything else. No, more like anybody else. You turned and ran, fighting back tears in your eyes.
What you wouldn't do for a butterfly's wings.