"Regan"

Her throat was raw from smoke. Everywhere she turned there was fire. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t even cry. She heard yelling in the distance. The screams of the only woman she knew to be her mother. The cries of her brothers. And the galloping of horses. It wasn’t long before there was shouting above her. A strong arm reached through the din and scooped her up. Being carried away from the uproar she could hear the pleas of the only parents she’d ever known. They were calling out to her. She reached her arms to them, but they were far gone now. They were running now, away from the remains of their wagons and lives. The little girl, her dark hair singed about her face, which was covered in burns to match her hands, was carried off to a tall castle, looming over the green fields which were now blackened around the edge. An older man, dressed nobly, was standing at the door post. He took the child from the knight who carried her and sent her off with a nurse. There was whispering among the servants. Would he keep the child? The nameless daughter of gypsies. Lord Gilchrist looked on her with tears in his eyes. How was it that she could so strongly resemble his late wife, who always wanted a daughter, but never lived to have one. He would keep her yes, and he would cherish her, more than any father who ever loved a daughter. And he would call her Regan.