she's smoke; Hestoni

[Scorch]

i set fire to the rain

There was not much in-between to be had in life, anyhow, she muses. Peace or war, queen or subject, mother or worthless. There were colours perhaps, emotions, true physical sensations; here though, there are shades. White and black and grey, but the grey is infinite. A greyscale life belongs to them, and to the others here… The millions of others, existing between the shades.

Life here, however, is deceptive; one may easily slip into lower dimensions, but surely they exist in the fourth: they exist throughout time. Scorch’s skin, while still charred, no longer carries the weight of having birthed ten children. Her muscles are taught, her eyes alive and sharp when she wills them to be. On the better days, she seems almost alive, flame tattoos glittering silverishly upon the fervent woman. Yes, the true Scorch remains; yet the burden of death, of being without her children, and of seeing only in grey has taken its toll.

An eerily vibrant smile decorates the mare’s lips as Hestoni becomes alert, dragon eyes sparking; yellow fades in and out of her irises, a reminder that even here, magic is at work. Leaning into his kiss like a cat to her flatterings, Scorch absorbs the faint sense of his touch before it is gone.

“I think they will,” She murmurs. Shaking her head slightly, the mare speaks in a more authoritative voice. “Nihlus can visit the dead. They have no reason not to.” Disconnecting from her queenly self – the effort to command is simply no longer there – Scorch sighs gently. “We have to be patient with them, Hestoni. We’ll know they’re okay when they come to see us again; until then, they just need some time to grieve.”

Realizing her eyes haven’t left the seam since she began speaking, Scorch averts her gaze, focusing her attention upon her consort just as he does to her. His question far from comforts her, however. Her lips tug downward, an ugly expression along the ugly woman’s face. Innards tearing, her eyes burn as though with saltwater to hold his gaze; yet she fights the pain, defends her dignity, battles emotionally as she once did physically.

“No. I haven’t.” The hackles of her voice raised, a button pushed. “Have you found the… The other one?” Her voice cracks, eyes going from prickled to weak. “Your first woman?”

scorch

“flatter” in French means pet so stop judging my francophonization of words :| :|