Front Porch of Asgard
Blythe couldn't see the fire, so when she heard that one had started in the gardens, she dropped everything and bolted outside. She went no further than the porch, her hands clutching the rail, as she heard the sounds of the fire spreading across the lawn. Damaged property, heavy smoke, screaming people, unsettling heat. Where stretches of green auras stood was now emptiness and blackness. The sound of shattering glass caught her ear - she knew it was the greenhouse collapsing under the fire's constant, unyielding barrage.
All of her work. The plants, many of her notes, her medicines, her journals. She had come to this world with nothing. She made an empire out of that greenhouse.
And now she was witnessing that empire turn to ash.
Broken relationships, the abduction, new year's eve, the insecurities and the shame and the nightmares she had faced when she'd come here were nothing compared to this. Leaning against the wall of the mansion, Blythe slid down and clasped her hands together, her face dead of expression.
She could not see the fire, so she could not put it out. She could be of no help. She could not save her sanctuary. And with her world crashing down around her, Blythe died inside.