Credit Where Credit is Due
Notes
The Butterflies are Dying
1/1
By Ekaterinn Ciel Duval
They flutter around us, constantly seeking more contact
with
our skin, our tears, and our lives. I am too weak to do more
than
faintly try to brush them off of the both of us now . . .
and he is too far gone to even care anymore.
With a sob, I sink to the ground, pulling him with
me. I
hold his head in my lap, among my skirts and cradle him with my arms.
We have fallen here in the the desolation of the hushed lull of the
lush palace gardens. The
beautiful trees and colorful flowers here are still the same, except,
of course, for those cursed black-and-gold butterflies that cover them
too.
But at least here, he can feel the caress of the
cool air.
At least . . .
at least he'll die here, lying close to the earth
he loved so much.
As for me . . .
I look up and see a pale moon in the sky, although
the sun is still
shining.
Mother . . .
Is this what you wanted for me?
Is this what you wanted for any of us?
Did you know this was going to happen just when
we had everything figured out?
It's funny . . .
I always thought all we would have to worry about were threats from
the
outside . . .
but . . .
in the end
it's our own bodies that are betraying us.
And his is still so beautiful.
Flowing purple hair and deep dark eyes that look right into my soul
and
right into my heart.
How long?
I wonder.
How many more hours, minutes, seconds do we have?
My tears fall and splash onto his face, scaring the butterflies away.
Oh gods above, if there are any gods above, why us?
I remember the day the black-and-gold butterflies first descended to
us
from the heavens.
Chibi-Usa was filled with childish delight.
"Look how pretty they are, Mother!" she cried, dancing around
with them until I could only make out a swirl of pink, gold, and black.
"Aren't they wonderful?"
She was the first to fall.
She . . .
No! I won't think about that . . .
pink and gold and black all over again . . .
but no laughter . . .
nothing at all except sobs which I don't even hear as
coming from myself.
I shudder and hold Endymion closer to me.
His skin is still warm.
That's a good sign, right?
A hopeful sign . . .
as if any hope was left for us at all.
I laugh bitterly.
He does not stir.
No, I knew that all hope died when the cherry blossoms fell,
pink petal by pink petal,
from the royal orchard, the day my daughter fell ill.
The same trees are bare and empty and our future . . .
her future is an eternity measured
in breaths
instead of centuries
now.
If I close my eyes, I can still see her falling, still see everybody
dying and leaving me all alone.
If I close my eyes, I still smell the stench of death
accompanying the bodies of my friends.
Of my senshi, dying as they tried to protect me.
I don't deserve protecting.
If I did, I would be able to find a way to keep all of this from
happening. If I did, the crystal would have worked and nobody
would ever have
to left alone again.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear their whimpers as
their tortured souls left their bodies. I can still hear them
screaming for
me to protect them, to save them.
Save them when I cannot even save him.
If I close my eyes . . .
so I don't.
Instead, I open them and watch the silver of my kingdom be
taken over by the gold and by the black.
Silver tarnishes, but gold does not. Their lives will be the
death of us. The gold covers the silver of the city and the black,
the death, coats the blue of the sky. I cannot see the sun anymore.
I feel dizzy.
I hold him tighter and tighter.
His heart is beating slower and slower.
Is it so near the end now?
I can't . . .
I can't hold on much longer . . .
Endymion, I am so sorry.
We are dying.
I can accept that fact now.
But I still don't know why.
After the first deaths, people begun to whisper.
Whisper that we must have done something, anything to make
the gods, our ancestors angry.
Angry enough to send death to us in beauty, disease
clad in black and gold, the souls of the dead coming down from the
heavens to wreak revenge on the earth.
Mercury laughed and reassured us that that idea was silly, that
there must be a rational explanation for this plague.
But after she too fell to the harbingers of death that
she was trying so desperately to understand, I begun to
wonder.
Had we somehow been amiss? Or worse, was it all
somehow my fault?
No!
No . . .
but I don't know any more.
I guess I never did.
My arms tighten around him.
I no longer have the strength to try to push the butterflies
off his face, off his body. I can only see his closed eyes now.
The rest is gold and black. Yet, those ill-fated colors are no longer
twitching and turning about. I watch their motionless forms in momentary
fascination.
The death bringers have brought death on themselves as well.
I would laugh, but I don't care anymore.
All I care about is him.
His breaths are coming excruciatingly slow now.
So are mine.
I rest my cheek on his.
"I love you." I whisper as his chest rises for one last time. "I love you.".
I smell the scent of withered white roses briefly as I, too,
fall into oblivion.
I love you.
The souls of the departed are butterflies.
But the butterflies are dead.
~Fin~