She’s ready to let another snide remark fly when the red mare’s voice cuts across the surf in a reprimand. Þoka’s lips twitch, then press tightly together, and she swallows her words. Her eyes follow Björn as he leaves the beach, front hooves pressing deep into the sand as she debates her next course of action.
Siobhan has a point. She’s here now, no bones about that. And while she’s not about to play the same social games that got a mare killed back home, she can still be at least halfway civil without getting close. Her eyes flick to the red mare, who stands waiting for her, and Þoka grinds her teeth to hold her tongue as she steps stiffly off the sand and joins her on higher ground. The blue mare makes a point to keep Siobhan between herself and the stallion, but does peer around the taller female to keep tabs on him. She is suspicious at her best. Now she wonders if Fjö∂ur might have scolded her, as Siobhan did, for showing her worst. But Fjö∂ur would’ve had a hint of fear in her voice, the whites of her eyes showing as she rolled them in bright reminder of the kind of violence a stallion was capable of— but that’s the past. It’s all gone now. All of it.
“Her name is Fjö∂ur,” she replies, shooting another glance at Björn, barely resisting the urge to holler at him again, like it’s all his fault she got swallowed by the sea. Þoka exhales sharply instead, and when she continues her voice is controlled, if noticeably tight. “Those other places, are those islands too?” she directs the question at Björn but her eyes skip away from his white face, unable to keep her expression neutral when she looks at him, and focus instead on the rough knob of his knee. Her next question is softer and muttered for the mare in red. “How often do horses drown around here?” |