The White Butterfly

Once upon a time in the Realm of the Helions, lived a race of little fairies called the Whites. Unlike their mischievous faerie counter-parts, they were forever responsible to right their wrongs and keep the order between good and evil.

However, in the modern world, this race had a dwindling populace. A sighting of a White was as rare as the sighting of a unicorn. Scattered across the realm, these poor creatures could rely on none, for they were forever antagonized by the faeries.

This tale follows the days of a small White called Butterfly. The young White was no more than the height of a human palm. Her golden locks and snow white butterfly wings, an envy among the faeries. And for that she was often bullied. Especially because she was the last among her kind in that whimsical garden of the East Coast.

But she refused to bend to the will of those naughty faeries, and continued to carry on her duties as a White, replacing the changelings kidnapped by the fae, undoing any mischievous hexes performed on the poor humans, and making posters to warn the local folk of their shenanigans.

However, it was too much a burden on her tiny shoulders. She worked day and night, all to honor her sacred duty. And everyday she grew weaker, her skin paler and her eyes darker.

One late night she was woken up to a knock on her house, a white tulip bud, the most beautiful one in the garden. With drowsy eyes and a heavy stance, she flew to the door and peeled the petal down. It was one of the faerie princesses. The naughtiest one in the garden. She tilted her head in confusion, looking at her through drowsy eyes.

“I have a proposal for you. Join our tribe and you shall enjoy all the festivals of the garden as if you were one of us. You shall sing and dance till the witching hour and enjoy the sweetest dews of the late mornings. The changelings shall repair your tattered dresses and comb your luscious hair. All you need do in return is dye your fair wings black.”

Little Butterfly was stunned to surprise, she hadn’t expected such a promise. Once the princess left she felt guilty of her joy. She could finally have others to talk to. All she needed to do was paint her cursed wings black.

But she shook off the idea, remembering her family line. The people who protected every human life. 

The next morning she saw the dozing fae, as they enjoyed the late mornings, her bitter morning dews were her only solace. She got to work quickly and repaired the night's hexes, she brought back poor babies back to their feeding mothers. Straightening her old posters she returned back home and found the naughty fae wake up for their morning dews.

For a moment she envied their lazy stretches and their careless yawns. She imagined what it would be like to be one of them. A colourful dress, gold glitter in her eyes. A cup of the sweetest honey and dancing to her heart’s content, never stopping, not even till the sun falls asleep.

She sighs thinking of that life. She spies a group of young faeries dancing around in merriment, calling to each other in love.

But she knew that would never be hers. Because she wasn’t a faerie, she was a White. She was good, and she was pure.

Later that eve when she near closed her petal door, she heard voices enchanting her to play some more. She let the voice command her and outside, but faeries stood there with rotten pomegranate turned dye.

In her panic she flew as far as she could, but more came from every corner and nook. She looked behind her, a crowd forming, and the rose bushes in front of her that would surely tear her fair wings. What should she do? She pleaded to her gods. 

Should she let the world turn her black and forget her just cause?

Or take the brave step and walk into her doom. Where she would hurt her skin but hold on to her values firmly? Be black or be torn?

She thought of the festivals, of the dancing and fun. Of her old family that warned her of the fae’s plot. Of the humans that she helped.

Her decision was made for she was a White. She flew into the rose bush without a hitch in sight. She screamed and yelled as the thorns ripped her wings, her skin was torn and blood spilled out, as red as the roses in this cage.

But she was proud for she had remained good to the end. She could no longer fly, that’s true. But at least she would live fighting, and keep her true heart.

But that’s a fate the faeries did not understand. 

After all kindness and good was forbidden,

In even fiction, to take a stand.