The Butterfly Knight of the Misted Veil.

“They’re trying to kill you. They’re trying to kill us.” The voice spoke incessantly, trying desperately to claw its way into her mind.

Lying in a bale of hay, Aelem lay on her side clutched at her head of strawberry apparel, trying to find her peace in the quietude of a small lone barn, where no wild animal thought to rest. Tears dripped gently down the bridge of her nose, freezing still against the chill of the winter.

“Let me take charge, and I’ll kill them all for you.” The creature hissed. “I’ll bring back your sorrow’s weight in blood.”

“I don’t want to… let you free,” Aelem spoke in a wavering, hushed tone.

As if to spite her, Aelem could feel harsh torrenting within her chest. Clutching at her shirt, she exhaled sharply, a fit of coughs erupting within the quiet air. As she pulled away the hand that had covered her erupting disposition, she realised it had been blanketed in ruby red. Physical torment was all the creature could think to do, as she sat in silence amidst its taunts.

There would have been no sleep for her during the night. She knew that well enough. If rest were to grace her mind, it would only have been when she grew tired enough to pass out where she stood. Then, as the coughing had subsided, and she lay within her dulled pain, Aelem had resigned herself to another sleepless night under the stars.

“It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it, Ms. Leviathan?” A gentle voice called out into the darkness of the night.

Amidst the gleam of the moonlight, a doll sat in his purest silence, twirling a wildflower in between his long, unmarked fingertips. His smile, against his feminine form, was like a patch of those wildflowers; prim, quaint. He sat atop a haystack, having draped a cloud-white cloak with ornate golden trim over his shoulders to stave off the bitter frost of winter, and the heat of his soft breaths fell against the air in large exhaled clouds of steam.

“Do you not get cold out here?” He spoke suddenly, turning his gaze to rest upon Aelem below.

His voice which echoed against the chilled breeze was light, hollow, and deep all swirled together in a sort of harmonious mixture that blended against the air.

In regards to his question, Aelem could only sit up softly in the hay, looking up towards him with fearful, questioning eyes. Her whole body felt as if it had been grasped up by anxious disposition; not too unlike the frost of the winter, but wholly different despite that. Above her was a man who by all means was meant to kill her, yet he stood calm and still as he looked down gently upon the woman of rubied aesthetic.

She wondered then, what further motive he could have had, for her head to still rest upon her shoulders. As she thought desperately as to how she would have made it out of the situation, however, he reached into his cloak and procured a gently polished leather satchel. He lifted it into the air and tossed it wildly through the sky just the same. It landed softly beside Aelem, and she simply looked up towards him in turn, as if questioning its meaning.

“Go ahead, open it, Ms. Leviathan.” He smiled softly.

Against his command, she hesitated, her gentle fingers hovering over the satchel. Yet, harshly, she steeled her heart and forced herself to unclasp the twine that kept it shut. Inside the satchel, a stale loaf of bread had been wrapped carefully in a white cloth, and a glass flask had been filled with water, sealed tight by a cork. A woven blanket, thick, yet small in size, had been bunched up indiscriminately amidst the food as if it had been prepared hurriedly. She then looked back up toward the man, who smiled back towards her.

“My name is Omen. Due to my propensity for… my love of gardens, I suppose, people have taken to calling me ‘The Butterfly Knight’.” He spoke idly. “It’s a bit silly of a title, although I can’t help it when the butterflies land upon my shoulder. Perhaps to them, I look like a flower. It’s quite strange.”

Hesitantly, her hands took up the loaf of bread, and bit into it. Stale, crumby, and burnt upon its edges, it was nothing one would have gazed upon and felt their stomach rumble loudly with gluttony. Still, to the vermilion woman, it was a treasure within the night that she had learned to despise. Slowly, of an elegant facade, she bit away at the hardened bread, until no more than a handful of crumbs had fallen onto the cloak she had set upon her lap.

“What’s your name?” Omen asked of Aelem suddenly. “While it’s the truth of the situation, calling you ‘Ms. Leviathan’ seems a bit rude. It’s not quite how I like to carry myself, and I’m sure you would much rather be called by your name…”

Yet, in turn, she answered with a question born of her confused heart.

“Why…?” Aelem spoke quietly, her voice wavering in its solemn tone. “Why do all of this for me…?

“Why…?” He mimicked in turn.

There was silence between them for the longest time, so much so that amidst the waving wind, the owls began to hum their calls aloud, and the grass began to sing along to the melody of midnight.

“I just… don’t want anyone to die,” Omen spoke with a softened gaze. “So… you need not worry. I’m not going to kill you.”

Her eyes shook with surprise in that moment, as if it was a pattern of words strung together that she had not expected in the slightest. She did not know if it was falsity, but she began to wonder if she had judged the man by his name, before his character, as others had her.

“My name is Aelem.” She said in a hushed whisper, looking back up towards him with glimmering bright irises. “Aelem La’arte…”

He tilted his head to the side as if the revelation was immediately interesting.

“Where are you from, Ms. La’arte?” Omen asked of her.

“I… don’t know.” She spoke quietly in return.

“Hm? Sorry, I can’t quite hear you,” Omen said.

Eye-to-eye they met, for in an instant, he had appeared before her, kneeling at her side as he smiled. So close to him, Aelem could feel the warmth of his body beside her, so stark in contrast to the bite of the winter air. She could feel her face grow red-hot, so she set her gaze towards the ground as she spoke once more.

“I can’t remember anything…”

With surprised eyes, he knelt in silence for a moment more. Falling back into the hay of the barn’s floor, he let out a sigh as he glanced up towards the ceiling.

“So it’s like that again, huh?” He spoke softly as he glanced up at the reflective glimmer of the starlight that peeked through the holes within the barn’s roof.

After he had rid himself of his own questions, he turned his gaze back toward the woman that by all regards, he was meant to have killed.

“Well, surely you can’t have tempered yourself well to the winter. You’re barely dressed for the frost- more so within the veil.” Omen spoke with a smile.

He grasped the thick-knitted blanket away from the satchel, and in one patterned motion, draped its entirety over the woman before him. She could feel the grace of the blush upon her face, although it was much harder to hide when he knelt so close beside her.

Aelem had not the heart to tell him that the cold meant nothing to her. Still, his actions felt that much warmer in comparison. She was fearful, anxious, and worried, yet beside him, she felt an incomparable trust form in an instant.

Whether it was a trap or the truth of his kind disposition, she would rather have died amidst it happily, or lived its experience well.

So, beside him, in the quiet of the night, she bent to the warmth and fell into a silent slumber.