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Description
"This is gonna be a quick, cute, simple flatcolor that I'll finish in one sitting!" I told myself 3 days ago.

Story
Previous: Pushing Boundaries
Next: Rescue the Princess!

Nobody had ever told Cyrrol there was a difference between being a parent and, well – parenting.
The stallion was being faced with his second child, but the first he’d been permitted to know. He'd assumed it would make things easier, and to some extent, it was. Never was there any tension between him and Anira; his daughter was a beautiful, welcome sight to his eyes. He’d even taken to calling her ‘ladybug’ – not a typical fan of nicknames, but it came so easily. She was full of an excitement and joy he’d long since forgotten.
Yet, it was all the more confusing. As a foal, Cyrrol had to learn most things on his own. The only glimpse of fatherhood he’d ever had was of his own father, whose presence had been scarce at best. This had made Cyrrol's few attempts to meet Arlow, his firstborn, a struggle – made worse by the fact that Arlow had been shielded from Cyrrol for most of his life. Consequently, their relationship was nearly nonexistent. Cyrrol now had the opportunity to teach Anira such lessons, painlessly, carefully, from an experienced adult... only, he had no idea how to do so. It was a puzzle, and he was missing pieces.

They lay in the field one day, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun. There were moments of peaceful silence, but never for long, as Anira would find some way to break them. Cyrrol wondered if the concept of rest had any place in her mind.
“Daddy,” she began, propping herself up on his back.
“Yes, ladybug?”
“Where do the butterflies go?”
Cyrrol paused. Oh, please don’t let this be her way of asking ‘where do we go when we die.’
“What do you mean?”
“The butterflies,” she repeated. She pointed her nose at a passing swallowtail. “Where are they going?”
He followed her gaze to the butterfly, trying to understand what she meant.
“...They’re going home,” he said after a moment.
“Oh.” Anira went quiet. She watched as the swallowtail flew further away. Ah, perhaps for once, his answer had sufficed –
“Where do they live?” she piped up.
Or not.
“Well…” Cyrrol started, but trailed off, realizing his knowledge of butterflies was severely lacking. An odd thing to suddenly see as a problem.
Glancing at Anira, he was met with a bright-eyed, expectant filly face, eager for his answer.
“They live in the forests,” he finally said.
“How come?” asked Anira, without missing a beat. “Forests are dark and scary.”
“There’s food and shelter for them there.”
“But we have food and shelter here.”
“Butterflies need a different kind, ladyb–“
“My stall could fit lots of butterflies! I don't mind sharing.”
The stallion took a breath. “Darling, butterflies don’t like stalls.”
Anira had stopped listening just then. Something in the distance made her tilt her head.
“That one looks funny.”
Cyrrol looked around the field until he spotted a speck of color. It floated upwards perhaps a foot up before falling back to the grass. Another butterfly... one of its wings was half gone, as if it had been sliced clean.
“It won’t fly right,” said Anira, frowning.
“It tore its wing somehow,” Cyrrol observed. “It’ll probably die soon.”
“Die?” The filly gave the downed butterfly a look of dismay. Before Cyrrol could regret bringing up death to a small child, she asked, “Because it’s not pretty anymore?”
Cyrrol blinked. If anything, he’d expected her to ask to help it somehow, or why the torn wing would kill it. Wherever had she drawn that conclusion?
“No, no, it’s…” He paused. “Nothing dies from not being ‘pretty,’ ladybug. If it can’t fly, it can’t get home. It can’t find food or shelter.”
Anira looked at him, then back at the butterfly. The insect in question fluttered up once more, barely going anywhere before returning to the ground. It looked as though Anira was thinking hard.
“But it’s ugly,” she said, very matter-of-factly, as if she were certain that were a factor in its doom.
The stallion didn’t know what to say. Should… should he repeat his explanation?
“It’s ugly so it can’t fly,” Anira stated then, sounding very content with her conclusion. Cyrrol wanted to reiterate that the torn wing kept it from flying, specifically – but decided better of it, wondering if perhaps that was just her way of understanding the injury.
“...Sure,” he said with a shrug. If ugliness and a torn wing were interchangeable to her, so be it; he supposed it still got the message across. Cyrrol thought the butterfly’s colors were still quite pretty himself, as sad as the sight was.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he added casually. He watched while the speck made its slow trek across the field.
“Huh?” His daughter gave him a puzzled look. Cyrrol shook his head. She’d figure it out on her own.
“Never you mind, ladybug.”

Featuring 605 RSS Cyrrol and E530 RSS Anira

Pose reference: Bebe and Blue - `
Background reference: alpine meadow 09.

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. My work may not be reposted, copied, traced, edited, published, or used in any way without my prior explicit permission.

Description
"This is gonna be a quick, cute, simple flatcolor that I'll finish in one sitting!" I told myself 3 days ago.

Story
Previous: Pushing Boundaries
Next: Rescue the Princess!

Nobody had ever told Cyrrol there was a difference between being a parent and, well – parenting.
The stallion was being faced with his second child, but the first he’d been permitted to know. He'd assumed it would make things easier, and to some extent, it was. Never was there any tension between him and Anira; his daughter was a beautiful, welcome sight to his eyes. He’d even taken to calling her ‘ladybug’ – not a typical fan of nicknames, but it came so easily. She was full of an excitement and joy he’d long since forgotten.
Yet, it was all the more confusing. As a foal, Cyrrol had to learn most things on his own. The only glimpse of fatherhood he’d ever had was of his own father, whose presence had been scarce at best. This had made Cyrrol's few attempts to meet Arlow, his firstborn, a struggle – made worse by the fact that Arlow had been shielded from Cyrrol for most of his life. Consequently, their relationship was nearly nonexistent. Cyrrol now had the opportunity to teach Anira such lessons, painlessly, carefully, from an experienced adult... only, he had no idea how to do so. It was a puzzle, and he was missing pieces.

They lay in the field one day, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun. There were moments of peaceful silence, but never for long, as Anira would find some way to break them. Cyrrol wondered if the concept of rest had any place in her mind.
“Daddy,” she began, propping herself up on his back.
“Yes, ladybug?”
“Where do the butterflies go?”
Cyrrol paused. Oh, please don’t let this be her way of asking ‘where do we go when we die.’
“What do you mean?”
“The butterflies,” she repeated. She pointed her nose at a passing swallowtail. “Where are they going?”
He followed her gaze to the butterfly, trying to understand what she meant.
“...They’re going home,” he said after a moment.
“Oh.” Anira went quiet. She watched as the swallowtail flew further away. Ah, perhaps for once, his answer had sufficed –
“Where do they live?” she piped up.
Or not.
“Well…” Cyrrol started, but trailed off, realizing his knowledge of butterflies was severely lacking. An odd thing to suddenly see as a problem.
Glancing at Anira, he was met with a bright-eyed, expectant filly face, eager for his answer.
“They live in the forests,” he finally said.
“How come?” asked Anira, without missing a beat. “Forests are dark and scary.”
“There’s food and shelter for them there.”
“But we have food and shelter here.”
“Butterflies need a different kind, ladyb–“
“My stall could fit lots of butterflies! I don't mind sharing.”
The stallion took a breath. “Darling, butterflies don’t like stalls.”
Anira had stopped listening just then. Something in the distance made her tilt her head.
“That one looks funny.”
Cyrrol looked around the field until he spotted a speck of color. It floated upwards perhaps a foot up before falling back to the grass. Another butterfly... one of its wings was half gone, as if it had been sliced clean.
“It won’t fly right,” said Anira, frowning.
“It tore its wing somehow,” Cyrrol observed. “It’ll probably die soon.”
“Die?” The filly gave the downed butterfly a look of dismay. Before Cyrrol could regret bringing up death to a small child, she asked, “Because it’s not pretty anymore?”
Cyrrol blinked. If anything, he’d expected her to ask to help it somehow, or why the torn wing would kill it. Wherever had she drawn that conclusion?
“No, no, it’s…” He paused. “Nothing dies from not being ‘pretty,’ ladybug. If it can’t fly, it can’t get home. It can’t find food or shelter.”
Anira looked at him, then back at the butterfly. The insect in question fluttered up once more, barely going anywhere before returning to the ground. It looked as though Anira was thinking hard.
“But it’s ugly,” she said, very matter-of-factly, as if she were certain that were a factor in its doom.
The stallion didn’t know what to say. Should… should he repeat his explanation?
“It’s ugly so it can’t fly,” Anira stated then, sounding very content with her conclusion. Cyrrol wanted to reiterate that the torn wing kept it from flying, specifically – but decided better of it, wondering if perhaps that was just her way of understanding the injury.
“...Sure,” he said with a shrug. If ugliness and a torn wing were interchangeable to her, so be it; he supposed it still got the message across. Cyrrol thought the butterfly’s colors were still quite pretty himself, as sad as the sight was.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he added casually. He watched while the speck made its slow trek across the field.
“Huh?” His daughter gave him a puzzled look. Cyrrol shook his head. She’d figure it out on her own.
“Never you mind, ladybug.”

Featuring 605 RSS Cyrrol and E530 RSS Anira

Pose reference: Bebe and Blue - `
Background reference: alpine meadow 09.

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. My work may not be reposted, copied, traced, edited, published, or used in any way without my prior explicit permission.