Nightmares. Night after night. They come and trick her into believing it is reality. Leaving her with sweat on her soft, mahogany hide. Nyimara would wake-up crying in silent wimpers, tears streaking down her face. She'd look around for comfort and remember that her the familiar warmth that was Sigurdr was gone.

Always they began the same. Bright cornflower blue skies dotted with thick puffy white clouds sprawled lazily across the skies. White capped waves crashed against the rocky limestone ridges that jutted from the sea. Birds, loud and yapping squawked from above, their beady black eyes indigent at her interruption of their skimming the shores. Always it started so peaceful... so serene.

And then it happened.

Out of nowhere the screams began, painful and strong. She can hear them, feel the thud of each hoof as it crashed over the clydesdale stallion's flesh. She could hear Sigurdr scream her name, feel the pinch of flesh as the stallions of the lagoon bore down upon the foals and forced them towards the seas. No matter how fast she ran, no matter how hard she fought always the nightmares end the same. Her Sigurdr's voice desperate for her above the roar of the waves and everything even Atlantis itself determined to prevent her from reaching him. All she hears in the end is that manic laughter, the sort of laughter that sends ice through your blood and causes your bones to shake with both fear and rage.

It is him.
She doesn't have to see to know it is him.

Cullen.

Time had passed since Cullen stole the foals from the Ridge and yet still the nightmares torment and haunt her. No longer do they stir every moment that she finds time to close her eyes but still it is enough to prevent her from getting much rest. She had new responsibilities now. Perhaps had the damned bachelors never come to the Ridge, she would not have worried nearly as much as she does now. She finds herself unable to rest long anymore, constantly patrolling for fear others would manifest from the shadows and take what remained of the small herd that Bjorn had meticulously gathered to him. Though she was not nearly as fond of the spotted mare as others who had spend more time with her, she did have a healthy level of respect for her.

Bjorn registers the weight of her words with a flick of his ears. Concern dances in those glacier eyes that had not so long ago held such hard fury. Nyi feared that what close bond they had once shared was gone, feared that like Sigurdr he too would vanish into the waves beyond her reach.

There was a part of her that expected him to recoil from her touch, to deem it not appropriate. But she can’t help herself. Touch is important to her, it is humanizing... reminding her that there is still a beat to her heart when everything seems to have turned to ice and stone. Amber eyes peer out at him from underneath her long, dark lashes and she studies the defined lines and contours of his dark face, searching his eyes with an almost sense of need. Paper thin nostrils take in that familiar scent and Nyi feels herself grown instantly comforted by the smell of him. A coy smile finds ash dusted labrums in spite of herself. She tosses the long white curtain of her forelock out of the way. He had missed her.

His whiskered muzzle presses into the concave of her breast and once more Nyimara feels that familiar fire begin to burn from the smoldering embers of her soul. His touch sends shivers through her body not because of the coolness of the ocean air but the nature of his being. His statement catches her off guard. Small cupped ears flickering back and forth atop her small head as she blinks silently at him. He was here for her—that means he cared for her still.

She trembles now, stepping near enough to him to press her slender body against his own, finding comfort in the solid muscle that ripples beneath his smokey blue skin. "Promise me you wont leave me." she breathes, pressing her teacup muzzle into the concave of his breast.