Þoka kicks through the ocean like every churn of her legs is an assault against the gods who swept her Fjö∂ur away. Her muscles burn from the effort, and her agonized rage is all that sustains her as she follows the bald-faced stallion through the waves. It was stupid to attempt a second swim so soon after the first. Her lungs are on fire. She drags in a deep breath and splutters as a wave crashes over her chest. Coughing, she presses on. There is no alternative. She curses the lovers Rán and Aegir and every other god she can think of, all the way down to Hel, and then she starts again from the beginning.
By the time they reach the shore her internal monologue has been reduced to a litany of each god’s name, each curse become a prayer to just let her make it to dry land, just let her hit the beach and live to find her Fjö∂ur. Her toes catch on the seafloor and she stumbles, dunking herself as she scrambles for purchase on the uneven slope leading up to shore. She pinches her nostrils shut against the deluge of water flooding across her face and clamps her pinned ears more tightly to her poll, surfacing with a gasp as her scrabbling hooves gain traction and pull her further out of the waves. Salt stings her eyes as she stumbles up the beach, shedding water like a second coat as she coughs and snorts to clear her airways.
If she just keeps moving she’ll be okay. Sides heaving, the blue roan hauls herself up the beach on aching, shaky legs. One more step, she tells herself to convince each leg to move. Just one more. Þoka’s head hangs as she catches her breath, mumbling, “One more,” completely oblivious her body has ground to a glacial halt only a step out of reach of the rolling tide. |