VaLkA

mare / five / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The sight of her old enemy prostrate and vulnerable before her should have filled Valka with the thrill of victory.

Instead, she felt nothing at all.

It was evident from the moment that her shoulder collided with the Icelandic’s that this was not her true adversary, but a shell absent of both his spirit and his formidable strength. And though she might have ended his life in a single swift blow, the skjaldmær hesitated, warring within herself. Desperation drove her to complete what she had begun in charging the white-splattered stallion. But honor held her motionless where she stood, looming over the broken creature with her ears swept back and her sides heaving. The fjandi coughed, staining the snow with flecks of red that confirmed his mortality - but still she could not rise into the rear that would precede her foe’s final moments on this earth.

Then he spoke to her, and the gravel of his voice both stoked the flames of her hatred and softened the sharp planes of her heart.

Refur Kona, he called her - a pet name for someone who could not be the Yakutian mare. Because Valka - for all that she might be soft in appearance - had never shared such a deep bond of affection with anyone. Amongst her own people, love was regarded as a weakness that could not be afforded. And to see it so clearly represented in one of their strongest enemies - it called into question still more of the foundation upon which the skjaldmær’s world had been built. Soon, she would have nothing but a crumbled edifice to stand upon - which was fitting, perhaps, given the end that her tribe had faced. As with those she’d sworn to protect, nothing but ashes would remain of what she’d been in her previous life.

Which made her only more desperate to cling to the tattered pieces that were within reach of her just now - especially the hatred that was beginning to make a resurgence. “I am not yours, vile creature.” Valka spat, jerking back a step as if physically repulsed by the idea of belonging to the Icelandic in such an intimate way. “And you need not warn me to deafen my ears to the lies that all of your kind speak. But should you wish it, I can shed my mercy and silence yours forever.” It was an empty vow, lacking even a single thread of the resolve she’d felt only moments earlier. Had Valka truly intended to kill her enemy, then he would have never had the chance to speak at all.

But fury was still present, and expressed in the vice of blunt teeth that chafed the tender flesh inside the stocky mare’s cheek. It was as if she were straining to hold back the words that were building within her - and slowly losing that battle. “Tell me, ormr, do your people celebrate? Do they tread joyously over the bones and ashes of everything that my tribe built, knowing that it was they the gods favored all along?” She had sought to inject venom into her words, but they rang as ashen and hollow as the memories that brimmed within her. “And you? After destroying the last member of a dying race, do you believe your gods will sing of that victory in the halls of Valhalla?”

Abruptly, the red woman turned, no longer able to face the ghosts of her past - whatever the consequences such a decision might bear. “Go home, ormr. Tell them that I am dead, if you wish. There is truth enough in the statement to spare your honor - if your kind even value such a thing.”