Tale 80- The Purpose of Pain

 The Traveler walked through the town until she came to a stand, in which an archivist was writing down something she’d been told. Transcribing each and every word, she finally finished and looked up at the girl, having not noticed her previously and being slightly startled. She then had a thought, pulling out a drawing and asking the Traveler if she may have seen the person depicted, as she’d lost a close friend some time ago. The Traveler gazed at the drawing, knowing the face was familiar, before suddenly remembering the marketplace and the bejewelled boxes around. She nodded. “I saw her in the marketplace in one of the towns further away. She was waiting for a rich noble.” she stated, the scribe’s eyes going wide in fear. “No, that can’t be true. She was awaiting me!” she cried out, the Traveler stepping back slightly and trying to resist the urge to shrink down into her cloak. No more hiding from confrontation, though. She stood her ground and the archivist calmed, looking at the Traveler in worry. “She was abducted, then…” she mumbled, the Traveler suddenly having an idea of what fate could have befallen that innocent girl and feeling sick. The archivist looked equally as worried, but they stared at each other a moment and mutually calmed. “Perhaps fate may be kind and return her to me…” the archivist whispered, the Traveler nodding and hoping so. She then found herself examining the story that the scribe was writing, the archivist giving a small smile and offering to read it to her. The Traveler pulled out her own book, preparing to transcribe the tale of ‘the Purpose of Pain’.

‘Once, there was a man who built a life for himself, a life of wealth and luxury. He had everything he could ever ask for, lavish gardens, an enormous house, and more servants and butlers than he could ever require. However, he had no time for pleasantries and fun, as he confined himself to his home and seemingly played at being an aristocrat, drinking wine and hosting parties with people that he barely knew. However, one fateful night, a storm ruined everything, destroying the garden and house and killing many of his servants and butlers in the process. Left with absolutely nothing, the man was lost, but was determined to find the purpose for his pain. Searching the ruins of his crumbled home, he found the only things to have survived were a book and pen he’d been gifted as a little boy, a gift he’d completely forgotten in his pursuit of riches. Opening it, he found the scribbles of an attempted flower drawing, and decided to try again, drawing the few flowers that had survived the wreckage. From then on, he had a new purpose, becoming an artist with the goal to draw everything he saw, living humbly with just a book and pen to his name, but nonetheless far happier than he ever was before.’

Feeling the story resonate in her soul, the Traveler gave a small smile to the archivist, before noticing something strange. A butterfly fluttered past her once more, but it was a different shade of blue to all the others she’d seen, almost muted compared to the rest. It landed behind the archivist, who didn’t notice it, and the Traveler gasped as it transformed into a person, the same girl she’d seen previously. She was now dressed in a blue outfit which left parts of her revealed, and had no shoes, just long stockings much like the ones the Traveler had once worn in her nightmare. She had a small butterfly emblem on her chest, and her hair was cut shorter, her eyes tired and dead. The Traveler couldn’t resist the word escaping her lips, saying the girl’s name. “Butterfly.” It was a name the girl had been given by the cruel noble, the one who used his power and influence to assert himself over others. It reminded the Traveler of Marcielle, how he would do the same if she didn’t fight, and she watched in sorrow as the butterfly girl stared at her friend, before bidding her goodbye with a bow. Her dead eyes locked with the Traveler’s, and she placed a hand over her heart, wishing the Traveler luck with her journey, a journey she would never have taken herself. No, in her case, she merely took flight, and was brought here, where her tale would never be written, but still known. And thus, Butterfly passed on, flying away into the trees. And the Traveler said goodbye, walking in the opposite direction.