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If there was one thing a Heathen’s life revolved around, it was death — or so most outsiders said. There was a grain of truth in this assumption; their gods, their beliefs, their rituals, even many of their crafts revolved around those they lost. True to their thriving handicraft tradition, expert artisans made a variety of splendid works of art to honor them.
One such popular craft was known, in and out of Kievan Rus, as a butterfly portrait. Referred to as okno dushi in the Rus tongue (literally “windows to the soul”), these portraits depicted departed loved ones in side profile, much like Ishgardian silhouettes, just in color; the subject was accompanied by the butterflies that gave the craft their name, as the foremost Heathen symbol of the soul. While they were traditionally miniatures, the portraits could be any size. The miniatures were carried around everywhere by the living, so they could always keep their memories close.
One morning at Borel Manor, Elayne sat at the kitchen table, hyperfocused on sketching. She filled in a line here, shaded an area there. Beside her was a tome on butterflies, flipped open to the page with the species her dearly departed best friend told her was his favorite. Her eyes flicked constantly to the photograph of a stained glass window at Saint Reymanaud’s Cathedral she had taken what seemed a lifetime ago.
Elayne drew the man she dreamed of every night from the shoulders up, his eyes raised to the heavens, the satisfied smile haunting her nightmares gracing his lips. Floating on the canvas around him was a horde of Red Admirals, their blazing crimson wonderfully complementing the bright sunshine gold of his armor. The sketch was fractured into pieces of glass, to be filled in later with the vibrant colors of the church windows.
In the middle of her work, Aymeric walked into the kitchen, returning from his early session of worried peace proposals in his office. He shucked off his snow boots and hung up his coat with a heavy sigh, then spotted Elayne at the table, not noticing him. He switched on the stove and heated up the kettle, and once the tea was hot enough, he poured two cups and set one beside her hand.
“Hey,” he whispered, gently nudging her shoulder. “What are you working on?”
The pencil paused in its incessant sketching, and Elayne looked around blearily as though she had just woken up. She spotted the steaming cup, saw Aymeric at her side, and put her pencil down. She leaned back in her seat and took a deep gulp as he pulled out a chair beside her.
“Just…just a butterfly portrait,” she admitted. “I needed some air, so I decided to sketch it in here.”
“Butterfly portrait? An actual butterfly portrait?” Aymeric had heard of them, but he’d never seen one before. He took a sip of tea and gingerly picked up the sketch, careful not to spill anything on it. “Is this Haurchefant?”
Elayne nodded.
“This is beautiful,” he said, looking at it closely. “I forgot for a moment how much you love stained glass.”
“Thanks. I just…” Her gaze wandered off. “I wanted to do something nice for Edmont. Make something so that he can keep his son with him wherever he goes.”
“That is very sweet of you, Elayne,” Aymeric told her, reaching over to squeeze her shoulder. He still vividly remembered how she had placed Haurchefant’s blade on his chest with his hands folded over the hilt, saying that if his gods wouldn’t take him, hers certainly would. He could just sense her mind starting to go there too, so he swiftly changed the subject. “I thought you didn’t do miniatures.”
“I don’t, but I have done sketches for miniaturists in the past. It’s common for Rus artists to be middlemen for customers and more specialized professions. People ask me for a sketch, then they take it to a miniaturist so they can convert it into a miniature. It all forms a web. That’s generally how the system goes, so as many artisans can benefit from the work as possible.”
“Is there a town for miniaturists? What I mean to say,” he quickly clarified, “is there a town in Kievan Rus known for producing them? Like Orenburg and Orenburg lace?”
“A couple, like Tolyanovsk, Abadimir. There is one particular style of miniature in Palekh, but that’s not what this one is. Butterfly portraits can be made of a wide variety of materials; I planned for this one being actual stained glass, like a mosaic of sorts. The only common features in these portraits are a certain size, they’re always square, and they have wooden frames. And of course the butterflies.” She set her tea down and rose from her seat. “Wait here. I have a little collection of butterfly portraits in my room.”
Aymeric listened to her bang around until she returned to the kitchen with a small stack of miniatures in hand, setting them down like they were fragile china. Aymeric counted six of them, all in varying colors and materials, from red and lacquered wood to blue and vellum. Three of them were men who bore a strong resemblance to Elayne, all in various stages of life — they had to be her father, grandfather, and half-brother she had never met. One was a Roegadyn woman with blue morphos, another a sylph and luna moths. And the last one, a young woman with curly black hair on painted ivory with a willow frame, surrounded by ghostly green butterflies that eerily matched her eyes…
“…Why do you have a butterfly portrait — a memorial portrait — of yourself?” Aymeric asked very quietly.
“…After I was kidnapped and imprisoned…a part of me died with my dad in no man’s land. This is my way of honoring that innocent little girl, before everything was ripped away from her.” She started running a nervous hand through her short curls, averting her gaze. “And…with all the trouble I get into…might as well make my butterfly portrait the way I’d want it to be. I’m not sure who it would go to if I got killed…probably you or Edmont. Shit, I probably need to commission a few more, so that Artoirel and Emmanellain and Alphinaud have one, too…”
Elayne forced herself to look at her friend, and she was startled to find all the color had drained from his features, and he bore an intensely, uncomfortably serious stare much like her own. How had this man come to know her well enough to mimic her expressions with perfection?
“Elayne…why do you live like tomorrow won’t arrive? Because you always think it won’t?”
“I…after everything, I…I’ve learned to treasure every second you’re alive. Because there’s always a chance you won’t be in the next.” She looked at Haurchefant’s sketched smile; his dead smile flashed behind her eyes, and a lump rose in her throat. She pinched the bridge of her nose with a tearful exhale, and Aymeric set down his cup to embrace her, arms tight around her shoulders, head resting on hers.
“I’m sorry, I…I…it’s been two months, why am I still breaking down like this?” she bemoaned, trying and failing to stifle her tears.
“What did you first say to me when we returned to Fortemps Manor, after Estinien and Alphinaud and all them rescued us from the Vault? Grief is strange. You can think you’re holding up when in reality you’re far from it. In all honesty, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t breaking down. Breaking down like this is just a much-needed release from emotions. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He rubbed circles into her back with his knuckles, then glanced at the sketch again. “Were you planning on making that miniature yourself?”
She did not answer, just buried her head in his shoulder and shrunk as though trying to hide.
Aymeric sighed wearily. “I understand your intentions, but you are not risking your eyesight for this. Haurchefant would not want you to hurt yourself for him or anyone else. You’ll either send your sketches to a trained miniaturist or give them to Edmont so he can order them himself.”
Elayne nodded absently. “Can we go visit him today? Have a picnic or something and talk to him?” she asked, voice muffled.
“I don’t see why not. I’m sure he’d appreciate it,” Aymeric agreed. “I need to see him myself, honestly. I’m sure he’d have some answers for my current predicament…even if he can’t give them.”
The two resolved to pay an overdue visit to their old friend, and set about making preparations for the snowy trek.