The day of her return to the Ridge played over and over again in her mind. The harsh words that spewed from her lips and the icy fire that had burned hard in his own eyes. She would never forget that. Despite the happy memories, despite the joyous union of their bodies and minds; still those few fierce moments had managed to overshadow that. Pain etched itself in every crack and crevice of her torn heart, the loss of Sigurdr coupled with the dramatic moments on the beach with Bjorn threatened to overwhelm what fragile sanity that she still held onto. She was lost amid the torrential seas of her own making.

She could have been that helpless mare. She could have shivered and sobbed desperately against his side with whispered words of lost desperation. She could have stared at him with horror and rigid with fear at the thought of marauder stallions and foals lost to the winds. She could have been that mare.... but it would have been a lie.

She was a daughter of the wolf. Rage and retribution burned through every sharply defined muscle. Indignation burned through her eyes and brought to life the creature that long lay dormant beneath the surface of her chocolate colored skin. She could pretend to be those meek and humble mares that so frequently seemed to find themselves upon these island shores... but that was not who she was.

Bjorn.

His crisp scent is a stark contrast to the saline airs that draw her silver white mane upwards in wild dancing ringlets. Ocean dampened neck arches elegantly as piercing auburn ooids fixate upon the smokey blue warrior. Bjorn.

Her heart pounds in the confines of her breast as he steps through the shallow surf towards her. Was that defeat in his pale blue eyes? No. Sorrow perhaps... but she doubted the bear king could find defeat so easily at his door and still draw breath in his lungs. In that they were very much alike. 'Nya'... the name falls off his lips in a soft and near silent voice. Like the warm cloak of sunlight on a winter's day the gentle sentiment eases the tension from her tones muscles and replaces it with something akin to softness. Nya. Only Bjorn ever called her by that name. A secret shared between them alone. Any suspicion that he came looking to finish their fight disappears in that moment. Despite herself a sense of tenderness flashes in her dark gaze, memories resurfacing of gentle embraces and the feel of his broad form pressed tightly against her own.

"Bjorn." his name is a whispered prayer on her lips. Ashen labrums quiver despite herself and she gives her lithe figure a quick shake to rid the weakness from view. She was not weak. She could not be weak.... and yet.

Small cupped ears flicker atop her dampened crown as his question hangs in the distance that separates them. He wanted to know how she was? Her son was lost to the lagoon. She had ruined what bloomed of their relationship and her defeat of Ysabel had caused her to become perhaps the most hated member of the herd. How was she? "Tired." she breathes, her words soft spoken despite the turmoil that burned through her. She was tired. Tired of fighting and tired of the fury and rage that coursed through her veins. She was tired of feeling like she needed to prove her worth and tired of the jealousy that scored the jaded lines of her heart. Yes. Tired. She was tired.

She needed him.

Despite her resolve not to bend she turns now, taking a small step towards him. Velvet soft lips stretch out to his. Just once. One feather soft touch lingers upon his whiskered maw. "I miss you." she whispers, her words barely audible against the swirling waters that dragged at their hooves. Dark lashes blink up at him now, her pale forelock caressing the gentle curve of her dark cheek. It was not an apology, but it was a start. Something. The heat of autumn burned through her body, the hunger to feel his body against her own almost made her break down that resolve but she dare not. She must be strong. Yet she can still linger upon hope and vivid memories.