Þoka glowers at the stallion from under the dark fringe of her forelock as he settles himself, apparently quite comfortable and intending to hang about. Does he think this is some sort of picnic? Two happy clams come together for a little chit-chat on the beach? She’s certainly not planning on sticking around for much longer; she’s still got a whole ocean to cross to catch up to Fjö∂ur. Her scowl deepens when he suggests she make an offering, but when he then answers her question the blue mare feels her guts seize.
This isn’t the motherland at all. Þoka turns her neck stiffly to face the waves gliding onto the beach, her stone-dark eyes skipping like polished pebbles over the sea in search of any shadow, and shape that might belong to her Fjö∂ur. She drags in a difficult breath and holds it. Is this how it feels? Chest tight, heart slamming against her ribcage, lungs lined with fire? The water laps over her hooves, tonguing her toes just to see how she tastes.
Her blood flushes hot through her body and sets her legs to trembling with more than just fatigue.
Þoka’s exhale is a vicious snort as she looks toward the stallion. “How’s this for an offering?” the blue mare snarls as she presents her hindquarters to the sea with an insolent flip of her tail. “Rán and her lover can kiss my ass. Until they return to me what they’ve stole, they’ll get no better offerings than this from me.”
Her gaze slips down the beach behind him. Fjö∂ur is the strongest horse she knows. It is impossible that the ocean has pulled her down into its dark embrace, for Fjö∂ur is a fighter. Always has been. Still is. What a wild tale it will be when she finds her silver patched friend. Þoka’s narrowing eyes return to the stallion. “What are you doing away from the motherland?” she asks. Up until this moment it hasn’t occurred to her that maybe others in that faraway place had had the same idea as she and Fjö∂ur. |