VaLkA

mare / five / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Sǫlvarr’s absence left the Bay’s skjaldmær adrift.

Like a worn piece of driftwood borne by the sea’s shifting tides, Valka wandered without a conscious destination. In moments of inertia, a strange mixture of grief and fear filled her, transforming the air she breathed into something gelid. Something so heavy, she thought that she might choke on it. It was easier to keep moving; easier to outrun the dark cloud than to weather it. Eventually, the steady rhythm of the stocky chestnut’s gait even served to soothe her, and rational thought returned. Though she might not know how long her son would choose to remain with Solomon’s herd, the Yakutian mare was certain, at least, that he would return to her in time. And in the end, a few days of heartache were a small sacrifice for everything that she had gained, and stood to gain still.

There would be seasons upon seasons to know the boy, and love him. To see herself in him, and swell with pride.

That said, Sǫlvarr’s departure had also granted the small red mare a new perspective. Having felt what it was to watch the golden-crowned colt from afar - unable to touch him, hungering for the sight of his smile and the sound of his laughter - she could hardly begrudge Solomon the opportunity to know his son, too. And if her sorrow was a heavy burden, it gave her a new appreciation - and a new respect - for the Cove king’s strength. Perhaps the secret of bearing the desolation was in burying oneself in the other relationships that they treasured. For the remainder of the day, Valka stood in companionship with the other members of her herd. Grooming Sæunn until the little mare’s coat shone, talking softly to Loire. Standing silent vigil with Bacardi. Even playing with Glory and her daughter, though it was not as unrestrained as when Sǫlvarr enticed her. And that night, the herd slept as closely as any family who shared the bonds of blood - only their ties were something deeper. Something chosen.

When she woke, it was not as easy to pick up the threads where they had been left. In her herd’s company she had found fulfillment, but Valka still longed for something more. For laughter, and the moments of freedom that she’d stolen at the Cove’s border with her child. Subdued, her thoughts drifted backwards in time. Reliving the beginnings of her life in this strange land that had come to feel more like home than she could have ever imagined. Remembering the good more than the bad, such as the brief kinship she’d shared with Grier during her time in Paradise. Or the day that Medusa had found her in the Bay, and their relationship had deepened into something that transcended simple friendship.

Suddenly, Valka wanted nothing more than to see the tobiano mare again.

Unfortunately, it was not as simple as stepping across the boundaries of her home. Torn, the Yakut hesitated from where she stood atop a bluff, gazing northward - towards the Inlet. After a moment, of reflection, however, she headed down the slope with a new resolve in her stride. No grudge was worth giving up the affectionate camaraderie that she shared with Rougaru’s daughter. Perhaps it was time to mend what had been fractured between the greying prince and the chestnut skjaldmær, if only for Medusa’s sake.

Though there was no definitive line between the Bay and the Inlet, Valka felt the boundary between the two on an intuitive level. The scents of the northernmost territory were different, and the wind more cruel. It whipped across the broad, flat landscape in vicious blasts that would have frozen the pony-sized creature to the bone, if not for the insulating layer of fluffy hairs that had grown in beneath her shaggy red outer-coat. If there was one benefit to these gusts, however, it was the news that they bore - and this particular one, coming down from the north, carried the familiar scent of Ironclad… and something more. Something rancid, that sent a shiver of unease trailing down her spine. Moving her limbs faster, Valka raced in the direction from which it had come, clamping down on the instinctive urge to turn and flee. If there was trouble, then she could not leave - not without knowing that Medusa was safe.

She arrived in time to see the red stallion charge away, a smaller red filly soon following on his heels. Perplexed, her dark gaze shifted to the paling stallion who stood beside an indiscernible figure that reeked of decay. The breath caught in Valka’s throat, and she pressed closer despite the potential danger of entering another’s home uninvited. She had to see for herself, and know that it was not Medusa whose flesh and bones were crumbling to dust at the stallion’s feet.

Because if it was - then regardless of who was at fault, there would be a reckoning today.