Connection - Golden Lycans Sequel 3/3 [in progress]

Butterflies

***Ophelia***

The weekend before Halloween was cold yet delightfully sunny.

I had awoken, feeling a chill in the air, but with warm sunlight streaming through my window once I'd opened the curtains. Today was the day we were going to the zoo as suggested by Ash, and I was looking forward to getting off campus for a few hours. Other than bowling and going back to the pack one time, I hadn't left Vale since I'd started.

..

I feel happy in the sunshine while I drive us down the country lanes, the drive there having been very scenic and enjoyable. My 'dented Nissan' was deemed the better car for the drive we were now doing, and in particular due to the well known fact that the monkeys in the safari park liked to terrorise the cars.

"This really doesn't look like a zoo," I comment as a grand manor house looms into view at the end of the long road ahead. I had been to London Zoo several times before with my grandparents, since they didn't live too far from it, but this was different.

"It's owned by a family with a lot of money and a lot of land. Animals roam around parts of it and we take the car through at the end," Ash says from my passenger seat.

"I wouldn't mind living in a place like that. Not that you'd see me mucking out any stables, of course," Maddy muses from behind me.

"Doctors can earn quite well, Madeleine, but I do not believe you would be able to afford a residence like that," Ares says. She laughs.

"Clearly. I'm talking about when I eventually settle down and marry into royalty or some other man of noble blood who naturally inherits such a place," she replies casually.

"Why would you want to do that?" Ares asks seriously, perhaps speaking from experience given what he'd implied about his own during the week.

"The glamour, my dear," she says, playfully leaning her head over towards him and resting it on his shoulder.

"Big houses take a lot of upkeep," I mutter, thinking about any time I had been asked to hoover our house.

"Tell me about it," Ash mutters too. I turn the car into a parking space, and we all get out.

"Weather is good!" Ash says happily, putting on his sunglasses.

Unsurprisingly, Ares begins to act as if he had never been to a place like this before. Arguably, perhaps he hadn't. It is endearing watching his delight at feeding some farm animals in an enclosure where visitors walk around with them.

"Eww, that is really gross," Maddy says, wrinkling her nose as a sheep slurps some grass nuggets out of her hand.

"If you can't handle a sheep's tongue, how are you ever going to handle being a doctor?" Ash points out. The sheep then drools all over Maddy's leg and she squeals again.

"I'll figure it out. Sterile blood is better than sheep drool," she replies as Ares hands her a tissue from his back pocket.

"Aww, thanks," she coos. We exit the enclosure and walk along in the sunshine to 'the insect zone', which has an insect house and a butterfly enclosure.

"Uhh...big no, I'll pass on this. I don't do more than four legs and nothing that flies. Yes...even butterflies," Maddy says with a grimace, resolutely sitting on a low wall outside and getting her phone out of her pocket.

"Suit yourself, Mads," Ash shrugs as we enter the insect house. I have to admit, I'm with Maddy a little on the insect front, but I was looking forward to the butterflies. Surprisingly, the exhibit is pretty cool. I watch with fascination as a line of leafcutter ants carry parts of vibrant green leaves across a log and then through a link bridge between two, large, insectariums.

"A different kind of pack animal," Ash says with a smile while standing next to me. I point to the display description.

"It says here that they're more individualised with how they function, but it adds up to unintentional teamwork. How quirky," I muse.

"Unintentional teamwork...wish that happened with that group project we have to do for sociology. Two of our group clearly cannot be bothered, and all Mads does is flirt," Ash mutters in response.

Another insectarium includes a group of praying mantis. They are so uniquely bizarre in appearance and almost don't seem of this world. They all turn their heads to look at me and I giggle at the sight of them tilting their triangular heads, their bulging eyes fixed onto me.

"That's...weird, they're all looking at you," Ash whispers, leaning down next to me to look at them.

"Yeah, they're more observant than I realised," I reply as they all continue to stare at me.

"Do you think they know...what you are?" Ash asks quietly. The idea baffles me at first, but I cannot deny how strangely these insects are now all looking at me.

"Who knows. According to that brute in the car park, I still smell the way I should, even if I don't exhibit any of the traits that I should," I reply, peering closely at one of them as it tilts it's head the other way now, craning it's head up towards me. Ash and I both straighten up and he puts his hand out onto my arm.

"I think you're closer to it than you believe you are," he says lowly, looking at me with a soft expression.

I give him a weak smile before my eyes drift over towards Ares. Ash turns to look too and exclaims loudly.

"Wow! check out the hidden tarantula whisperer among us!" he says, pointing over to where Ares was indeed holding a tarantula that one of the insect handlers had gotten out for him. We go over and Ares once again looks delighted at another interactive activity.

"THIS is incredible!" he says, watching it crawl slowly up his arm, "I really do not mind spiders. This one is rather beautiful."

I'm not entirely sure I'd call a tarantula beautiful, but I can see what Ares means. The movement, the colours and the textures make it look rather majestic, compared to the common house spider.

"Not many ever want to hold her, because she is a little hairier than the others. She is totally harmless," the handler says.

"I am not concerned, she is fascinating," Ares says brightly, holding his other hand out for the tarantula to continue to crawl on to, now. He then holds his hand out towards me and I involuntarily flinch a little. I am not afraid of spiders, but this was much larger than the ones that showed up from time to time at home.

"That's odd behaviour," the handler says as the tarantula starts waving its front legs up towards me, before dropping its body against his hand.

"Did that thing just bow?" Ash laughs. I stare back at the tarantula with my heart racing a little, wondering now if Ash wasn't far from the truth—could these insects sense what I was?

"Perhaps she is a little stressed, she isn't used to being held by visitors, no offence to you at all, you're a very brave man, and you've handled her well," the handler says, carefully taking the spider off Ares' hand and returning her to her terrarium.

Up ahead is the PVC strip curtain that leads to the butterfly enclosure.

"I don't need to see the butterflies," Ash says, sounding a little bit more masculine than usual, "I'll go out and sit with Mads before she gets sidetracked."

"Okay, we'll see you in a bit," I reply. I push my arms through the strips of plastic which leads to another set of doors and yet another plastic curtain. Immediately, it's like stepping through into a sauna. I hear Ares take a deep breath behind me as the hot, close air hits him too.

My immediate impression is that it’s impossibly colourful and lush in here, overflowing from floor to glass ceiling with an untamed riot of plants and flowers. It feels like a more intimate, secretive version of the botanical garden at Exton. Despite the clinging humidity, there’s a sense of stillness that soothes me as I begin down the winding path. It’s quiet—eerily so—no sign of life aside from Ares and me. Only our footsteps and the gentle trickle of water from scattered features break the silence.

The pathway curves around the edge of the space, looping over a wide pond in the centre before snaking back to an exit tucked just beyond the wall beside the entrance.

I crouch to watch a cluster of large, vividly coloured butterflies with lime green wings settled on a low stone pedestal. Their long, delicate tongues sip at sliced oranges placed there by the staff. Their antennae twitch towards me, and the rhythm of their wings slows, hypnotic. Ares crouches beside me, his dark eyes wide with quiet awe. There’s something disarming in the way he can be so genuinely captivated by what others would overlook. Amid all my inner unrest, his gentle, unfiltered way of seeing the world is a balm I hadn’t realised I needed.

One of the butterflies flits towards him. He doesn’t recoil—no startled flinch, no hesitation, nothing like how Maddy might react. It lands on the slightly tousled front of his hair, and his entire face lights up. I stifle a laugh at the pure wonder in his expression. He slowly rises with the butterfly still poised like a crown, until it finally takes flight and drifts ahead of us.

We carry on along the path, coming upon a swirl of butterflies dancing around a bush covered in bright pink, fragrant blooms. Some are almost the size of my fist, their vivid colours pulsing in the air. They remind me of the glowing Fae flowers my mother once grew—always popular with summer butterflies, though none quite like these. These weren’t native to England.

Ahead, two tall bushes frame the path. Vines have tangled above them, creating a tunnel of dark greenery. Ares ducks as we enter, a few vines catching him in the face. Hanging from the canopy, their wings quivering delicately, are moths of every shape. Their colours are softer than the butterflies’, more subdued, but there’s a different beauty in the velvet patterns and quiet hues. Nestled amongst them are more butterflies, resting in the dimness, slowly flexing their wings as they feed on the vine flowers.

One flutters close, only inches from my face. I reach out—not to touch, but to feel. The yearning inside me builds with every step through this place. It’s bright, bursting with life. Entirely manmade, yet everything breathes.

I want to connect. I want to feel it all, the way I knew Fae could—when the world bloomed through them. It’s been years since the ache in me felt so strong. It’s almost real now… almost. Everything here can sense me, but I still can’t sense it. The distance tugs at something inside me, and the joy I’d felt begins to fade.

"I wish I had my wings," I whisper to myself.

What would mine have been like, if I had them?

What colour would they be?

Would they look silvery and incandescent, like my mothers?

I walk on, leaving Ares behind in the vine tunnel with the moths. As I pass the entrance, I notice three large Atlas moths resting with their vast wings fully unfurled. I smile to myself, briefly amused, wondering what Atlas would make of the Atlas moth.

Would he recognise the likeness? Both striking and grand—the largest of their kind—with a quiet, commanding presence that needs no words to be felt.

I glance back, my heavy heart lifting at the sight of Ares with his arm raised towards the canopy, where three large, luminous blue butterflies wander across his warm olive skin. He looks up at me, his face lit with a wide, entirely unguarded smile. He’s been smiling more lately—ever since settling into life at Vale. It suits him. His smile is gentle, radiant, and often catches on others like sunlight on still water. And here, in this breath of a world, I can’t help but smile back.

Because right now, I feel happy.

...

***Ares***

As I wander through the butterfly enclosure, I cannot help but think of my mother.

She loved butterflies; and butterflies had once loved her. Thousands of years in the past, she used to sit among them for hours...or what had seemed like hours—to her.

But once my father had turned her, everything changed, and she couldn't enjoy them or encourage them near her anymore.

I wonder what she would think if she could see me now—surrounded by them, the same way she once had been. Resting on my skin, without fear. No butterfly had ever done this to me before. I find it oddly moving. A strange kind of peace. Part of me wonders: if humans could see this too—see how gently they land, how unafraid they are of me—would they still see me as a monster?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

The butterflies know I am part of nature, like them. They do not fear me because I do not harm them. But the same could not be said for my kind and humans. The threat is always there, unspoken but real. I understand why they would fear me, even if I don’t live as others do. It has always affected me, this fracture between how I am seen and who I feel I am. I am not like the others. I am my father’s son, yes—but half of me also comes from my mother, and the ache to understand that half is a constant low hum beneath everything I do.

I came to Vale for answers. I didn’t expect to find comfort. Or kindness. I didn’t expect to meet someone like Lia, who seemed to find the beauty in things more than most.

It had been a means to an end. But somehow, I enjoy being here. Even Madeleine’s exaggerated revulsion at insects has begun to amuse me. I enjoy watching her suffer through bad horror films with a bowl of popcorn balanced on her lap and a blanket over her head.

But more than that, I’ve found myself enjoying Lia’s company in ways I can’t quite name. I watch her ahead of me now, stepping through the low-hanging canopy of vines. The air is thick with warmth, saturated with scent. I can smell her blood more acutely here, perhaps because of the heat. I roll up my sleeves, trying to focus on something else. Anything else.

Above me, peacock butterflies rest on a vine, their wings marked with eye-like patterns meant to ward off danger. Their false eyes stare back at me, and I wonder who among us they would warn away.

I catch sight of Lia again. She’s paused near the entrance, admiring an Atlas moth, her expression soft with wonder. A rare sight, her serenity. She often seems on the edge of something—anger, sorrow, control. She hides it well, but I feel it sometimes. A quiet storm beneath the surface. When I brush her arm in class or pass her a drink, I catch fragments of it.

Something is missing.

Still, she impresses me constantly. Her insights, her questions—how her mind works. She makes me want to try harder. To rise to meet her. She has been nothing but kind to me, despite knowing how strange I must seem. That means more than she knows.

I stretch out my arm to a fluttering cluster of Blue Morphos. They land without hesitation, their wings like shards of summer sky. Their feet tickle slightly, and I laugh—quiet, but real. When Lia turns and sees them on me, her whole face brightens. There’s such warmth in the way she looks at me.

It startles me.

And yet, I find myself smiling back.

Because she doesn’t fear me.

She is my friend. And I value her deeply.

I feel a strange, swooping sensation in my chest as our eyes meet—hers vibrant, sea-green and shimmering in the warm light. There is something impossibly familiar about them, like a half-remembered dream that lingers just beyond reach.

Why do they feel known to me?

Where are they from?

...When are they from?

Perhaps we met in another life. Perhaps that’s why our friendship feels less like something built, and more like something remembered.

A continuation.

As though we had once stood beside each other like this before—not in this place, but somewhere else, long ago, beneath a different sun.

Is this what true friendship feels like?

My heart answers before my mind can, beating faster in my chest as a quiet joy swells within me.

Just then, a group of emerald peacock butterflies encircle Lia, fluttering excitedly around her like they’ve been drawn to something sweet. And maybe they have. She watches them with childlike wonder, her smile soft and real, her joy so pure it feels sacred. They slow their flight as they drift closer, the green of their wings mirroring her eyes almost exactly.

Then—soft as a sigh—they land.

Briefly, gently, they form a perfect ring above her brow.

A crown.

A living crown.

And for a moment, she looks like something out of a story—something old and magical, not quite of this world.

Then they lift away and scatter, rising like confetti toward the glass ceiling before floating lazily toward the pond.

I move to stand beside her, drawn not just by the beauty of the moment, but by the quiet gravity of her presence. Even without touching her, I feel it: a soft pulse of happiness emanating from her like warmth from the sun.

Tangible. Alive.

And yet—this moment, simple on the surface, seems to carry weight for her. Meaning. Her eyes drift upward, fixed on the high canopy above, and for a brief instant, they shift in colour, deepening to a brilliant, oceanic blue. There’s longing in them. A pull toward something distant and unreachable.

Something lost.

Then the air stirs.

Hundreds of butterflies and moths begin to gather in the centre of the enclosure, drawn to each other as though by a silent call. They swirl into a cloud of colour and movement—different wings, different shapes, all dancing in unison as if sharing a single, joyful thought. I’ve never seen such behaviour before.

It feels intentional—celebratory.

My heart lifts, caught between wonder and something else I can’t name. For a fleeting moment, I feel closer to the half of me that came from my mother—the part tied to nature, to warmth, to grace.

Then I feel it—Lia's hand, brushing lightly against mine.

Her fingers slip into the spaces between mine with the same gentleness the butterflies demonstrated, and I freeze—not from fear, but from the sudden clarity it brings. Her touch is feather-light, but the depth of what I feel through her touch is not. I feel her happiness, bright and true, and the quiet joy that blooms when someone feels truly at peace. But beneath it, like the undertow beneath still water, there is something else.

Solace.

She is happy—but it is a happiness laced with sorrow. A kind of bittersweetness that lives in her like a second heart. The ache of something missing. Of something hoped for, and never quite found.

I want to ask her what it is. I want to know what has left that hollow place inside her so I can find some way to fill it. But I can’t—not without revealing what I am—what I can sense.

I am becoming something more with her. It’s as though she’s tuned me to her frequency, and I grow clearer every time we’re near. I understand her in ways I’ve never understood anyone. Not even myself.

I watch her aura shift again. Gold pulses through the navy and sea-green now, bright and expanding, chased by soft blush-pinks and flickers of aqua blue. Sunshine yellow glimmers in bursts across her shoulders.

She’s never looked like this before.

But then—she’s never felt like this before.

I want to tell her she’s beautiful. Not for how the world sees her—but for all the things only I seem to notice. Her compassion. Her quiet strength. The way she glows, not with magic, but with meaning. With intent. She feels joy for others, even when she cannot always find it for herself. She carries sorrow, yet moves gently through the world anyway.

She is… good. In the rarest sense of the word.

And I’m simply glad to know her.

We stand there for what feels like a long time, watching the kaleidoscope of wings swirl in endless motion. At some point, our fingers twine more fully together, like roots quietly entangling in the dark.

I glance down at her again. There are tears in her eyes now, glinting like glass. Her gaze never leaves the butterflies.

Then—without a word—she lets go of my hand, turns, and walks away through the curtain of plastic flaps.

The moment shatters softly.

The light through the ceiling dulls. The butterflies begin to drift apart, slowly returning to their individual clusters.

The celebration is over.

The magic... has gone along with her.

I remain for a few breaths longer, eyes still trained on the soft dispersal of colour.

And then I leave too, stepping back through the curtain and into the world, my heart echoing with something I cannot name.

But I know—I have just experienced something profound. Something that has shifted the ground beneath me, however quietly.

And I know... I will never forget it, even if I don't understand it.

...

***Ophelia***

I push through the PVC curtain, needing to breathe. I felt rather overwhelmed and lightheaded after whatever had just happened in the butterfly enclosure.

I spot Ash and Maddy talking animatedly on a bench in the sunshine in front of one of the other exhibits. It was good to get some fresh air, and right now my heart was beating incredibly fast.

The past half hour in the butterfly enclosure had, perhaps, been the closest I’d ever felt to my Fae heritage—and the weight of it now settles heavily across my chest. The plants, the vines, the wingbeats, the trickling of water over stone… the sheer abundance of life that wrapped itself around me like silk. It was more than beautiful. It was awakening.

It had felt as though the butterflies recognised something in me. Like the insects, the flowers, even the hanging leaves—like they saw a thread of truth in me that I couldn’t touch myself. Something I’d spent my whole life reaching for but never quite grasping. I could feel them. For the first time, the world around me didn’t feel indifferent. It felt aware of me. Responsive.

As I stood beneath the storm of colour, it was as though nature whispered: we know you, even if you don’t know yourself.

But joy has always been a fragile thing for me—something that shatters under its own weight. And just as quickly as it bloomed, that deep, shimmering connection cracked.

The reminder came.

The same cruel echo: that I am not what I was supposed to be.

That no matter how close I come, I will never arrive. Not fully.

So I left. I slipped away before that ache could root too deeply, before I let myself hope too much.

Now, out in the open air, I feel the loss of it. The warmth. The light. I rub my arms, trying to chase the chill from my skin. But it’s not the air that’s cold—it’s me. Something inside me has been stirred up, brought too close to the surface.

I feel... raw. Unsteady. Like the world can see right through me.

Like I’ve been opened up. And I don’t yet know what it is I’ve let out.

"That was a truly wonderful experience," Ares says quietly, his voice so close that I realise he’s suddenly appeared beside me. I hadn’t even heard him step out.

There’s a shift in the air the moment he stands next to me—something subtle but undeniable. My pulse quickens again, uncomfortably fast. I tell myself it’s the change in temperature, the humidity aftershock from the enclosure. Maybe I’m just lightheaded. Maybe it’s my blood pressure. It can’t be anything else.

“I feel rather cold now,” I murmur, folding my arms tighter across my chest. “I could do with a coffee.”

I glance up into his eyes. They’re soft, dark, impossibly gentle. He’s looking at me like I’m something fragile and strange but somehow important. His lips part, like he’s about to say something—

“Ugh, YES!” Maddy bursts in, grabbing my arm with uncontainable glee and dragging me away from Ares, "they do bubble tea and I love it!”

I am deep in thought, trying to unpack how I felt in the butterfly enclosure as Maddy leads us along.

"Did you even like the butterflies?" Ash asks me with an unsure expression after Maddy has finally let me go.

"Oh gosh, yes! They were wonderful. I have never been around so many in one place. They landed on us and everything. I am sorry that we took so long in there," I reply. Ash stops suddenly and looks at me oddly.

"Huh? Really? Lia, you guys were in there for maybe two minutes max. Genuinely it was almost like you ran through there, which is why I just asked you if you'd even enjoyed them," he says with a surprised expression.

"What? No, you cannot be serious, we were in there for at least half an hour," I reply, wondering if Ash is feeling okay.

"No. I had literally just sat down with Mads when you came out," Ash says. He wanders over to the counter, leaving me standing there, leaving me to further wonder what on earth had happened in that enclosure.

Had I imagined it all?

That impossible stillness, the butterflies, the hush of something ancient rising to the surface?

It felt so vivid, so real. And yet... I begin to doubt myself.

Maybe it was just a dream.

Maybe the most profound moment of connection I’ve ever felt wasn’t real at all.

…

***Ares***

"Is everyone strapped in?" Lia calls out, glancing over her shoulder with a grin before shifting the car into gear. She pulls us gently onto the side road leading toward the drive-thru safari zone, the tyres crunching softly against the gravel.

I barely register the movement of the car. My thoughts are still tangled somewhere back in the butterfly enclosure, caught in that impossible moment—the swirl of wings, the light, the hush. The way the butterflies had flown in unison, like they’d known something we hadn’t. The feeling of her fingers in mine. I can still see it in my mind’s eye, vivid and strange and... oddly sacred. A living vortex of colour and breath and life. I’ve never known anything like it.

A rough tongue drags suddenly across my palm, snapping me back to the present. A deer’s head is now wedged unceremoniously through my open window, scooping up the pellets I’d forgotten I was holding. Madeleine shrieks with laughter in the back seat as another deer greedily nuzzles her hand.

I glance sideways—just in time to catch Lia looking back at me, mid-laugh. Her face is alight, radiant with unguarded joy. The sound of her laughter is still ringing in the air as our eyes meet, and for a second, something shifts.

That sensation again.

The swoop.

That odd, feather-light drop in my chest that both startles and soothes me at once.

What was that moment in the enclosure?

Why did the butterflies behave the way they did?

Why did it feel like the world itself had leaned closer to look at us?

Was it her?

Was it me?

Something within me feels different now, subtly but undeniably. As though a thread has been tugged loose—something half-asleep finally stirring. But I don’t know what it is yet.

But I want to understand—I need to understand.