Butterflies' Dance - [A Kimetsu No Yaiba Full Story]

Prologue

    Heart beat. Control breath. Control mind.

   Swift steps running behind the scenes. Shushed voice giving instructions, making sure everything was perfect. Quick hands readjusting the tutu and the chiffon, replacing the hair slides made of gold, pearls, and soft petals.

   Forbearing, the main star of the show lets herself be pampered. Then it starts. Her heart pace quickens. The velvet lightens, the drums starts echoing the excitement she feels.

   Lights, action.

   Rising star illuminated by the lights of the small opera. She is a jewel no one can take their eyes of, shining with elegance and grace. The crowd is breathless, yet, the next second, everyone is cheering, from the villagers confined in the back or on the front, ears bleeding from the loud musical accompaniment, to the aristocrats in their privileged balconies. Even he feels like one of those creepy admirers of hers.

   She is beautiful, radiating with bliss. He is on one knee, arms extended in front of him. He disagreed with it at first : it made him look stupid. But, as he sees her taking her first step, it seems he is going to falter soon. His legs are trembling so much after her rosy lips addressed him a sublime, thin smile, that he is not sure he will be able to follow her dance. Because it is hers. It is her moment. The moment she finally embraces her passion. Doing it in their presence is just a bonus. For them, and for the opera.

   The majestuous lady, takes the following ones, moving forward in chaînés. Sound. Shot. Arched. The beautiful butterfly seems to take flight. Escaping this wicked world. If only it was not so tragic.

   She flies. For a second. Only to fall in Death's arms.

   The red of her blood taints the white of the dress. She falls slowly. Painfully.

   He catches sight of her already pale purple eyes rolling in the back of her head. Of blood in the corner of her mouth. Of a shadow escaping from behind the second curtains.

   Standing up, he wastes no time. He runs, his ragged breath resonating in his ears. He is so close to lay a hand on this murderer, that whoreson who injured her. He pushes everyone of the staff, previously putting so much effort into the representation. As if the indignant people were not enough to slow him down, fueling his anger, a transport carriage takes him by surprise. His lungs are emptied from any air, and a hit lands on his head. It takes some time to catch his breath, but when he picks himself up, he is ready to crush them down and avenge his pleasant and sweet-tempered friend.

   He comes back to the stage. At first, he perceives screams. Hysterical screeches. He goes there running, despite his injuries. A silhouette is crouching, resting on the laying long black haired-girl. Red fluid is pooling from under them.

   Sick nobles are still watching them. Do they really think it was a part of the ballet ?

   When she mutters some sad excuses, he understands. A small figure is watching from behind a curtain, eyes blank from any emotion. She also probably understands. He falls down on his knees, taken aback, and carefully wraps his muscular arms around the shaking body, soothing her as she yells, hits, bites, drools.

   He cannot tear away his gaze from her. Lovely butterfly took a flight. A flight to paradise.

   He tries to wipe out the stains on his bloody knuckles. After all...

Wasn't it supposed to be tragedy ?