the devil in the mirror; scorch + any

[Scorch]

WATCH THE FLAMES CLIMB HIGH INTO THE NIGHT

Black and white; the differences between Wrynn and Leiland’s relationship with Scorch. Her precious little boy (boys have always been her forte) and her accursed little girl (they’ve always rubbed her the wrong way). Ever since his birth, the silver boy grabbed for her heart and stole it – or pieces of it, considering its broken state. And Wrynn? With each glance towards the incorrectly coloured girl, the vice around said heart grew tighter and tighter, until only Leiland’s childishly clumsy fingers brushed against the fragments.

And then, he left.

Wrynn did too for a while, she counters to herself. And she came back… better. The underbrush caresses her scaly hocks as she strides firmly through the Jungle, her broad shoulders pushing through enclosed spaces so as to reopen an old path. She bleeds here and there, crimson blood leaking from her powerful chest and mutilated skin. Her fire – her perpetrator – has vanished, leaving her the victim; and she sheds scarlet tears for the loss of her tattoos.

They will return, however, like many things, and many people. Lost and then found, a sheep returned to the flock by a loving shepherd. To the bottom of this ongoing list, Leiland’s name is written.

Her head snaps to the sound of his voice, a rumbling nicker quick to fill the space between them. The clearing had not been her destination, though she had been slightly too preoccupied to truly choose one anyhow. Nevertheless, she embraces fate’s shoving of the two together. Settling herself with a small, meaningless flutter of her brazen heart, Scorch allows her son to approach.

“And I have been waiting, son,” She replies coolly, instinctually irresponsive to his return. Each child has performed the same act, the pup with its too-short tail tucked between its hind legs; the mother-wolf has become all too practised to their apologies. But like any good mother, she relents in the end. “How have you been?” Her chilly frontier bursts, floods of warm water released; Scorch steps forward, nibbling and exhaling his forelock, the same as she has always done. Retreating, the mare notices how tall he has suddenly became, and deep with her heart of broken hearts, she aches for the children who shall never be her babies again.

And good riddance.

Scorch

Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle