VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Atlantis was a place that seemed to obey different laws of time than the rest of the isles. To some, the place where the Yakut had been brought was aptly named; a true paradise. After all, there was grazing in abundance, and predators were generally scarce as long as one stuck to the areas that were frequented by the herd. And beauty could be found everywhere - in the brilliantly-colored flowers and birds, in the pale strip of sand that formed the beach, in the sapphire-blue waves that rolled up the shore. But to the mare who spent her years wandering the vast, desolate tundras of the far north, Rougaru’s lands were not only alien, but repellent. The jungle was too dense. Beneath its emerald canopy, Valka felt a weight pressing upon her chest until she could scarcely draw breath. Yet the beach was little better; after only a few minutes beneath the relentless glare of the sun, the mare’s thick, fluffy coat was uncomfortable and damp. To persist in such folly was to be left weak, panting heavily, and so soaked with sweat that the auburn hairs clung to every curve of her body.

No, as far as the Yakut was concerned, there was no Paradise on Atlantis - only purgatory.

In the earliest days of her captivity the chestnut was seldom found far from the other mares - especially Grier, to whom she had taken a liking. But as the Atlantean spring made its subtle shift to summer, Valka became more restless and prone to wandering. On this particular day, the pony-sized creature traveled north until her hooves followed a trail that sloped steeply upward towards the edge of Rougaru’s domain. There she climbed steadily upward, steadfastly ignoring the ache of protesting muscles until their complaints diminished. Up here, the air was not so much cooler as it was clearer, and her lungs relished the sweeter taste of oxygen that wasn’t viscous with moisture. The rugged terrain was not unlike that of the sacred mountain that had shadowed her homeland; the himinbjorg that stood as the gateway between their world and the homeland of their gods.

Pausing at the pinnacle of a ridge, the chestnut pangare turned to look down upon the panorama of her prison without seeing; immersed deeply in reflections of the past. She had not thought of her home in a long time, but it had been longer still since she’d called the sacred mountain by its name. Such knowledge - though still taught to those who served faith or king - had been abandoned generations ago, and was simply referred to as the Old Way. The world had moved on, and the Yakuts had sought to stay abreast by sacrificing that piece of themselves. But this past had always called more strongly to Valka than the present. In those days things had been different; her tribe had not struggled for survival as enemies closed in around them like a circle of wolves, but had taken whatever they wanted with impunity. Strength - as it was believed then - was as much an obligation as a gift. The weakest creatures of the kind demanded order, and the strong were chosen as vassals by their gods so that they might uphold it.

Breathing in the air that was closer to the taste of home than Valka had known in two seasons, the small mare wondered again at the reason behind her survival when everyone else she’d known had perished. Had the fiery devastation caused by the sacred mountain been not only vengeance from the gods, but a message as well? Perhaps they had finally woken from their dormancy, only to see that those who’d once served them faithfully had forgotten. Had Valka been spared as the only one amongst her tribe who remained loyal? Turning her eyes to follow the swift flight of a hawk as it soared overhead, she decided that it was so. And with that certainty, the mare’s resolve was steeled. She would abandon all that she had been as well, and be reborn from the ashes.

She would become a skjaldmær, and show the world what true strength was.