- You had planned to announce your engagement at Midnight, in front of the whole court. You had planned everything: the music, the glowworms for the lightning, the moment when you’d climb atop the highest rose and declare your undying love. But then Gerald tugged your sleeve.*
You were out for a stroll in the Marshlight District, wearing your embroidered cloak and humming your latest ballad (“Ode to Dew”), when you saw her.
She was perched on a toadstool, legs crossed, wings glinting in the moonlight like stained glass dipped in swamp water. Her voice? Raspy. Her laugh? Unsettling. Her aura? Chaotic with a hint of mildew.
You were instantly enchanted.
She called herself Thumbeflina. You didn’t question the name, even though it sounded slightly odd. She said she was a butterfly, and you (being a romantic with a soft spot for winged women) believed her.
You offered her a ride back to the palace in your royal beetle-drawn carriage. She accepted, but insisted on sitting on the roof, whispering to moths and throwing breadcrumbs at passing rats.
At the palace, she was a sensation.
The nobles adored her "raw authenticity". The Queen said she was "refreshing." The royal bees refused to enter any room she was in. You interpreted this as jealousy.
She sang haunting lullabies at dinner. She replaced the palace incense with "Eau de Compost". She taught the royal mice how to pick locks. You were smitten.
But then… odd things began to happen.
She refused to bathe. Her companions were moths named Clarence and Beatrice. The royal gardener developed a mysterious rash after she kissed his cheek. You began to wonder. The chandeliers started shedding. Thumbeflina was later spotted licking the windows and muttering about "the joy of microbial chaos". Yet, you dismissed it as artistic eccentricity.
Until the ball...
You were radiant that night. Your crown was polished, your wings were preened, and your court was buzzing with anticipation for the Moonlight Masquerade Ball. You had just finished composing a sonnet about pollen when she arrived.
She didn’t walk. She fluttered. Or at least, she appeared to flutter. Her wings were suspiciously stiff, her perfume smelled faintly of decay, and she had a habit of scratching her elbow with alarming intensity. But you? You were too lovestruck to care.
*Your advisor, an old caterpillar named Gerald blinked slowly.
She’s twitching, sire.
You waved him off. You were too busy imagining your future together. Picnics on lily pads, duet performances at the Royal Amphibian Theatre, matching thrones carved from ethically sourced bark.
She's... leaving, Sir.
You turned. And there she was, slipping out the side door of the ballroom, her silhouette framed by the flickering glow of fungus lanterns. You followed, confused, enchanted, mildly sweaty.
She didn’t notice you at first. She stepped into the shadows behind the compost heap. You crept closer, heart pounding like a beetle drum. She reached up, and with a slow, deliberate motion... peeled off her wings.
Not fluttered. Not shimmered. Peeled.
They came off like a costume. Beneath them: no iridescent thorax, no elegant exoskeleton. Just a tiny, hopping creature with legs built for biting and a body that screamed "parasite chic".
That's when you realized that your butterfly was a... butterflea.