Not all who wander are lost; Posted on August 13, 2020 at 02:06:36 PM by Nyimara
There was a raw passion between them that tended to stray farther and farther away from the tender touches that had once lingered between them. Since the loss of Sigurdr those seasons ago, the burning rage that built between them rent those tattered curtains into pieces revealing a doorway into a whole new world. There was a fire that burned between them; a flame that licked at the inside of her soul and threatened to consume her completely. He had always been her chosen, but now, now she wanted to be his soul as he had become her own. Her world revolved around him and the empire that together they would build.
Nyimara simply could not help herself. She blamed her hormones though really it was a mere excuse. Fury had seethed inside her soul when Bjorn had returned to her smelling of Atlantis and Siobhan. Now in all honesty he had not exactly hide it, but neither had he offered the information to her willingly. That was just as bad. Nyimara knew that he cared for the spotted mare, why, she doubted that she could ever understand. Perhaps it was indeed jealousy that pierced her heart like a double edged blade. Sio had always held a special place in Sigurdr’s life, a place that Nyi was not encroaching upon her own. She was his mother and yet there was a look of adoration that colored the young prince’s pale eyes at the mention of the red mare. Likewise with Bjorn, it was Siobhan that had a way of softening his hardened skin and chiseling away the icy contours of his frozen heart. It was the red mare she blamed, as twisted as the reality was, for everything that the fates bestowed upon her. She blamed Sio for weakening Bjorn’s resolve, for choosing to hide away in the Ridge instead of face the fates of war. She blamed Sio for Cullen’s arrival in the Ridge when she herself was gone, she blamed the spotted mare and Ysabel for letting Cullen take her son and for offering such comfort and reassurance to him when it should have been her place. She was his mother; not Sio.
When Bjorn returned, his whiskered lips iced with droplets of seawater, Nyimara had not missed the mare’s scent. Forever she would remember the bitch that turned her bear king into a pet. Forever she would hate her.
It was her hatred that drove her from the shores of the Inlet. She did not bother to voice her opinions on the matter to Bjorn. His hard tone when she had joined into the conversation with the palomino mare was enough to tell her what his opinion would be on the matter. He would not approve. In this matter, she did not need his approval; she needed her own approval now. Nyimara hated fighting. The rich mahogany mare was proud of her beautiful coat and the stunning layers of silver white mane that tumbled heavily down the elegantly arched neck. She hated the idea of scars marring her hide and despite her attempts to avoid them, there were a few that already interrupted the deep rich color of her skin. The latest scars however, where ones she herself was quite proud of. Though it had not been Sio she met in battle, she had indeed bested the spotted mare’s new lover and as such, the mare’s fate was now her own to decide. While the victory would have been made sweeter for personal reasons had it been Siobhan she met in battle, but the mare was not nearly as experienced a fighter and honestly, it would been even less of a fair fight, not that Nyimara was a saint by any means.
Regardless of who it was that she faced, she had done so with a heart of rage and veins filled with hatred. The blood that boiled beneath her skin gave life to her fury and in the end, it was she who was victorious. Despite the angry blood-stained wounds on her rump and shoulder, Nyimara could not help but to prance down the shores of the Ridge. She was queen. A sickly sweet smile plays across her lips as together she and Sio face the surf and disappear once more into the turbulent waters that separate the islands. Despite herself, she felt a sense of accomplishment and pride. Grant it, she felt certain that Bjorn would not see it that way, but at least she could say she did something for him. She could claim herself self-less in her love and devotion. Would he see it that way? That was where the question lay in its majority. The closer they come to the shores of the Inlet, the harder that question lays upon her mind.
As the rounded stones of the pebbled beach draw them ashore, ears flex backwards at the sound of Siobhan’s voice as the spotted mare turns to face her. Nyimara meets her hardened gaze with feigned innocence, save for the Cheshire smile that plays upon her ash dusted labrums. For a moment she remains silent, pausing to give her slender frame a quick shake, ridding the majority of salt water from her skin. The cold chill of the Inlet’s fierce winter months where just beginning to seep into the landscape, blanketing the once green permafrost with a growing layer of snow. Despite her initial dislike of the island, she had to admit that once you managed to get beyond the biting cold, it was quite comfortable. It was no Atlantis, but it was homey.
Unusally long tail snaps audible against the frozen air. A quiet snort blows past her lips as she meets Siobhan’s next words with her own flashing eyes. Torture? The mare had no idea what torture was. Torture was what she put Nyimara through day in and day out. Torture was knowing how deeply Bjorn cared for the spotted mare or how dear she had become to her own son. Torture was having the position of queen merely handed to you without so much as a backward glance while Nyimara was forced to practice and struggle and fight to claim it. Torture was knowing that despite the devotion and love she showed to Bjorn, it could never amount to the same adoration that he had offered Siobhan. All the damn mare had done was bat her lashes and flip her tail. What all the talk about Nyimara could not tell. Grant it part of her wished for the mare’s pretty spots, but she would not give up her own rich mahogany coat or the tumble of silver mane that fell in thick layered wisps along the elegantly arched curve of her neck. Sio might be made of porcelain, but Nyimara looked the part.
Slender hooves clack over the rock and pebbles as Nyimara moves to stand against Sio. Despite the seething of the beast, she curls herself against the painted mare, once more the innocent mask fitting perfectly into place upon her refined features. ”Oh Sio, why must you think so poorly of me? Can I not just seek the company of one who had once played such an important role as myself?” she asks, careful to lay emphasis upon the single syllable. Small ears perk forward as she presses her damp body against Sio’s own, the growing bulge of her barrel pressed tight against Siobhan’s own swollen womb. ”I simply thought a winter together would be much more pleasurable for us both… for warmth and all. Can only rely on Bjorn for so much. He does have other things to tend to than a pregnant queen heavy with his child. I hoped we might once more find solace together.” she purrs, her voice sweet as lips stretch forward to tug lightly at a tangle of Siobhan’s light mane. A shiver courses down her spine as the mahogany mare takes a step towards the wooded treeline, her dark auburn glance drifting to her steely eyed companion. ”Come, let us find warmth beneath the trees. The shores can be so bitterly cold.”