she's smoke; Hestoni

[Scorch]

she'll be the first damn thing i want when i start drinking

She thinks of her children most predominantly. Imagines their lives, their comings and goings, their destiny and fate. Kaida, Noori, Simeon, Shahrizai, Ea, Wrynn, Leiland, Sarkis, Vi, and Volcan. Volcan most of all. The mare wonders whether she’s been found, whether the Sisters have given up their search, or if Camrynn truly was to blame for her youngest daughter’s disappearance. In the end, her line of thought is in truth a circle: running round and round the same track, an endless loop of unanswered questions.

Alas, these thoughts serve better company than most of the ghosts floating around. Scorch has yet to find Kagerou or Echion amid the grey, and most days, she lacks the energy to find them. She’s far more inclined to succumb to her thoughts, and, when she surfaces from their answerless depths, to cling to Hestoni.

Their time here has been short in comparison to many, yet she already begrudges those who manage to escape the beach. Her eyes study the seams, one in particular that her grandson escaped out of. The few who have talked to her were certain to tell her of that; it seemed to be the most exciting damn thing that has ever happened in this place. Yet even with this lovely distraction and temptation, Scorch largely focuses her energy on her husband.

Nudging the silvery giant with her grey-fire nose, Scorch nickers, the sound thin, though no longer strange to her ears. Her charred lips brush against his glistening muscle, though her touch is distant, like a breeze, like it always is down here. Hoping he responds – she always resurfaces when he calls, but sometimes it takes minutes -  Scorch rests her cheek against his own, murmuring gently to him.

“Hey, baby.”

scorch

Deadscorch is so angst, what are this aaaagh

[Hestoni]

you were the lightning and i was the tree The afterlife is both wonderful and awful. There is no in-between, here. Everything is white or black or gray. You are either dead, or you are not. There is a place where they are all borne from (or fall into once their bodies cease breathing), where they rise on steady, ghostly legs like newborn babies. There is the intriguing rip in the curtain where either the dead arrive or the living visit. He watches the gap daily, hourly, waiting for his children to pay him a visit. He is still strong and sturdy and earthly in this afterlife. He is still serious (his smile only comes out when his fire comes around, or if any of his family would ever visit), he is still strong (his body has been refined into its old self, when he was in his prime), and he still himself (riddled with scars, deep in his beliefs, loving his fire with every fiber of his ghostly body). Her touch startles him from his solider-like watch of the entrance and exit to the afterlife. It is fluttering and brief, nothing like the solid and flaming touches in their lifetime. He feels a slight stirring of ghost nerves sparking at her touch, but it fades away too quickly. Gray eyes turn toward hers and he mourns for a quick moment how the world has dimmed into a lack of color. But her voice forces those saddened thoughts away and he manages a gentle smile. “My darling,” he croons. His lips reach to kiss just behind her ear. “Do you think they will ever visit us?” Serious eyes latch onto the gap, seeking out a head or leg or neck of color that would mean someone real and breathing and alive visiting them. His worry begins to clash against his chest. “I hope they’re okay.” He turns away, toward her instead, and focuses his dark gaze on her broad face. “Have you found Kagerou or Echion yet?” The afterlife is a maze of old and lost and dead souls, and both of them have found it is incredibly hard to find anyone they might have known who passed away before them. Nonetheless, he knows she will not stop looking until she reconnects with her old comrades. She is too fiery and passionate to give up, even here. your words were the fire that burned the best parts of me

[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 :| :|

[Hestoni]

you were the lightning and i was the tree He nearly chuckles when her fiery spirit flickers through. Even in their eternal death, she wears the traits of a queen wrapped around her shoulders like a well-worn, thick cloak. She only ever let that cloak fall around him (only ever let his fingers touch the charred, scarred skin underneath; only ever let his lips kiss her broad shoulders; only ever let his words soothe her flame-licking tongue), even into the afterlife she draws it closely around her bosom. The soldier smiles (in his serious sort of way) at his fire’s words. Perhaps if their children did not visit, there would be hell to pay. He chuckles to himself quietly – they are already dead. What more could they do to their children? Nonetheless, her cloak is slipping away to reveal the weaker sides of the ghost queen. She cracks against the weight of his words, but he doesn’t regret asking. He knows the pain that was caused by the deaths of the adopted mother and the leopard queen. He spent his nights caressing his flaming lover against his strong chest while she sobbed and hid from the world, the Jungle noise providing a cover-up for the sounds of her heartache. He knows her well, and he notes the way her eyes shift from broken to weak. She mentions the other woman, the sunny girl who pulled him from the shadows long before his dearest ever caught his world on fire. They were both so different, and yet the both coaxed tender smiles to his serious mouth. He sighs heavily, pulling her closer against his chest. “I haven’t been looking, il mio fuoco.” His voice is a deep rumble, full of sincerity and adoration. “Why would I need to when I have everything I ever wanted right here?” At this he kisses her shoulder gently, as if too harshly a touch and she might shatter like a China doll. True, his time with the dancer was treasured and precious, especially their sunshine daughter, but his time with his flaming beloved is far more worthy of his love, if partially for the aged years they’ve spent together. your words were the fire that burned the best parts of me