The butterflies. They have always been on the ship as long as Warren can remember. Always fluttering about and minding their own business. Always different colours they were, complex patterns too some of them too. Sometimes they would hear the whispers, a silent song like a siren far off, calling them.Â
They did not start collecting the butterflies until the incident. An innocent thing, accidentally squishing a bug. Seems harmless till you get memories, from someone you never knew forced into your brain. Not their entire life story, just glimpses of a memory that does not belong to you, you know because there is no one you recognize within these memories.
 Warren found this out after accidentally crushing one under some parts on the large table in the middle of their room. Immediately memories flooded into their head. A ship. This ship. Someone walking through it. A captain, not Ry though. Was this the old crew of the kaleidoscope? Before ry was chosen as a new pilot? Is this what happens when you donât listen to the ship?Â
The whispers started to make sense, as they were the whispers of the old members of the crew. Old memories, almost forgotten only hanging on through the small body of a frail butterfly. Beautiful yet so delicate.
Warren started to catch these butterflies, some of them looked the same and they figured that these were different memories belonging to the same person. With time the master gunner managed to get a vast collection of jars, now filled with butterflies, each beautiful and delicate in their own way, all holding their own story. As the collection grew Warren found not all the butterflies whispered. And not everyone could hear the distant call from the small insects.Â
There were only a select few members of the crew that could hear the siren call of the butterflies. And all of them had one thing in common. They were missing some parts of their memory, either forgotten or wiped from their mind. In the least, they were gone. Or so they thought. With the old crew captured in jars, as to not lose those fragile memories, some new butterflies showed up, or at least became more present. These ones glowed and were only singular colours.
Warren started to find some of their own memories. They were a light blue, and glowed in the dark. How did they know they were them? They were the source of the ever so far songs. Voices they recognized and trusted, it drew them in, like the song of a siren. At first they started to collect their memories as they did with the old crew, making a new spot on the shelf for them. Careful not to knock any of the memories almost lost to time. Warren after time of collecting their own thought âwhat if they gave memories like the rest of the crew before?âÂ
They froze while saying this, dropping their jar with one of the largest butterflies they have seen in it. The glass shattered, piercing right through the weak butterfly, killing it instantly. The memory put them into shock, freezing them in place as flashes crossed their mind of a past long forgotten finally returning. Or at least a part of it.Â
It was overwhelming. So many things at once, possibly one of the worst memories to be returned to them. They look at their arm, no not the right one, the left, the one no longer flesh and mechanical. Itâs been like that as long as they remembered but now they remember how it happened. They slouch down, head against the table taking in this new memory. Maybe it would be good to save some memories for later, a little glimpse at a time because even a small glimpse was a lot for Warren.Â
They sat there for 10 minutes. Breathing. Taking it in and taking their time. Itâs been a long time since they have had their own past forced back into their head. After finally getting themselves back under control they stood up slowly, brushing off their knees before knowing exactly what they had to do. They had to write it down in case it was lost forever once again. They shift their movement over to an open notebook currently on the large table that took up most of the space in the room, tearing out a page and scribbling relentlessly on the page of what they remember.Â
A hall, long with many doors. Bright. Unnaturally bright with a view of figures that are just shadows around me. I am running. I am escaping. But from what? What am I escaping from and what am I running from. Oh no. Someone grabbed my arm. I pull back. Only to be met with pain as I watch a blade come running down right into my arm, below the shoulder. Severing it in an instant. I yell in pain holding it and watch me start to bleed out on the floor. Red now soaking my left side. At least it wasnât the hand I write with. I almost passed out at the sight of my own bones poking out of the now stump that my arm was. The man was grabbing at me again so I ran. I ignored the pain and ran as fast as I could away. I now have a reason to run.Â
With what they remember from that memory now written down the walk around the big table, careful to not bump the jars over to their bed where above it lay an empty cork board. They tack up the memory so itâs always there when they need to remember. This memory was horrible but itâs better to remember the pain rather than forget it. Pain can teach you things, what is right and what is wrong. But. ignorance is bliss correct? Itâs not the trauma that builds a person. So why remember it. Well, they remember it for the fact itâs a part of them now found. A lost piece to a puzzle finally found and put in place. It only felt right to remember.Â
The butterflies are important. Memories of yourself and others around you. Cherish them and care for them. They are delicate and can be broken easily. Too many memories at once and one can become corrupt, gaining a thirst for knowledge but not gain any at all and there may be parts of you that you are missing. Even if the memory is bad donât forget it, hold it close. Itâs part of you. You will find your memories, they will call you. Just follow the sound of the butterflies song and you will find them. If you find a memory lost and alone, let it be. Its owner will find it and if not? Warren will find it.
âPain doesnât make people, itâs love that makes people. the Pain is inconsequential, itâs love that saves them, and you would know that but you have none around you.â
-caduceus clay, critical role ep 110
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