Lagertha / all kingdom.

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

When Scorch leans towards the tree for support, Lagertha suddenly replaces it; and oh, how comforting she is. Ten years of tension between the two and Scorch wouldn’t have anyone else beside her – what’s that saying, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Well, perhaps that’s why Lagertha’s simple, physical gesture rouses the ailing woman enough to get her under the overhanging rock. The Jaqqa – no, Khaleesi – mentions Sunday when Scorch settles, to which she nods and grimaces.

Rhy arrives first, positioning herself next to the disfigured mare wordlessly. Scorch’s low-hanging head lifts slightly, her ears perking almost happily, though she is far from happy. “It would have been you,” She wheezes to the Avthillar quietly, “But she would have killed me.” Smiling dejectedly at her own poor, sad joke, Scorch’s ears catch Tantalize’s phrase a whicker. Unable to legitimately process the words, Scorch whickers in return, the sound scratchy and uneasy.

Lyris arrives, though the ex-khaleesi does not notice. Sunday follows quickly and silently, ever the invisible little red whom Scorch attempted to befriend once upon a time. Shivering softly, she moves a single hoof closer to the witch, only to be met by Sunday’s muzzle on her shoulder. Inhaling sharply, the knots in Scorch’s stomach untangle slowly. Bit by bit, breathing becomes natural once more, and the fire within her dims to simple embers; prone to catching, but easily subdued. The energy, while unnameable, soothes Scorch to the point that she raises her head from its dejected position. Although no longer in pain, the woman’s legs falter, and with as much care as she can muster, Scorch leans into Rhy. With some colour returning to her pale, sickly eyes, Scorch meets Sunday’s gaze, a silent thank you passing her closed lips.

Two children join them then, one respectfully distant, the other obliviously close. Blinking down at her little silver girl, Scorch cautiously lowers her head, terrified of triggering another attack. Nuzzling her youngest daughter affectionately and feebly, Scorch exhales upon Sarkis, attempting to sooth her. “I’m okay baby,” She whispers. “I’ll be okay.”

When she lifts her head again, blur-spots enter her vision. Highly disoriented, Scorch moans quietly, nearly collapsing onto Rhy. Straightening to the best of her abilities, the pitiful fire-sister loses track of the meeting, internalizing her pain and dysphoria. Gazing blankly ahead, she falls silent for some time, lost in her own agony and terror.

At the very least, however, she is surrounded by loved ones; and though she may well leave them soon, in those few minutes where all eyes find her, Scorch knows she has never been loved more than by her sisters. And, perhaps, that is all that matters.

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle