Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.

Summary: "Look, it wasn't attacked; it wasn't weak. Someone must have touched its wing."Six months post-movie, Victor finds a dead butterfly in the garden.

Memoriam for a Butterfly

The dew seeped between the threads of his trouser legs, staining the navy fabric black at the knees. There were tears on his face before he could order himself to blink them away; one tumbled down and soaked the wing of the delicate creature in his palm.

There was a hand on his shoulder, but still he could only stare in dismay at the tiny, dead butterfly. A garish orange, not like the pastel blue and ivory ones that she had become on their wedding night. Had they even been real butterflies? Or spirits, representations, escaping beyond? He knew that there wasn't a heaven now. But he didn't want to believe it.

Someone brushed the water from his cheeks and Victoria's voice said quietly, "It's a monarch, Victor."

He didn't reply.

She elaborated, "It's not one of hers."

He blinked and shook his head.

"It's not her, Victor," Victoria repeated.

Victor blinked again and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "I know. I'm being silly, aren't I?" Kneeling in a garden in the early morning, cradling the fragile remains of a dead winged insect and trying not to cry.

"No, no," Victoria assured him. "You're not being silly at all, dear."

"Someone must have touched its wings," Victor murmured, stroking it delicately with one finger, because it made no difference now. "Look, it wasn't attached; it wasn't weak. Some twit must have tried to touch it. It lost the use of its wing and couldn't fly to find food." The injured wing was the left one, just like her skeleton arm.

Victoria kneeled beside him, the movement made slightly awkward by her newly-swollen abdomen. Gently she plucked the butterfly from his palm and laid it to rest on the damp dirt. "It's no one's fault, Victor."

He sucked in his lip, his eyes burning. He hadn't cried for her, hadn't grieved for the circumstances for the six months since it had happened. But the beauty of the delicate insect, struck down in mid-flight, not asking for what it had received, had hit him as hard as a physical blow.

"She told us to be free," he murmured. "I'm not doing what she told us to, am I?"

Victoria put a hand on his until he looked up at her, eyes reflecting the early morning light. "You set her free. She wouldn't want you to mourn that."

"Would she be disappointed in me?"

"No," Victoria soothed, brushing his bangs back from his forehead. "Of course not. But she would tell you to start straight away."

Victor blinked again, the last of his tear clearing. He pushed a handful of dirt over the butterfly's remains.

"Come inside," Victoria said quietly. "I'll make you some tea. You're shivering all over."

She stood up slowly and after a brief pause, he followed her inside.

They did not name their daughter after Emily. They did not think that she would want to be confined to a mortal life once again, even if only symbolically.