Meadow

I said I would never give of myself to a land or herd, but not that I would never give of myself to a person. The weight of cold sorrow and dread that had sat in Ylva’s chest melts away like frost chased by a warm breath. Errant steps closer to her then, so close she can feel the heat emanating from his tall black body, and his stallion’s musk is thick in her nostrils: earthy and comforting, but frightening too. Her breath hitches in her throat as he rumbles his next words. With you, I am always home.

She is wordless, her dark eyes fixed on his as she wrestles with the feelings inside of her. If she wanted, she could lift her head an inch and caress his strong jawline with her velvet nose; she could lean into him until their bodies become one, reciprocating the passion that blazes in his eyes. It is the season, after all, and there’s a tug of longing in her belly that reminds her so.

But something holds her back.

Finally she smiles, but it’s a guarded smile: a smile offered not from one lover to another, but from a lady to her knight. She leans forward to gently press her snout against his in a gesture of chaste affection, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and then pulls away, retreating a step or two to put a little more space between them. “You are always welcome at my side, Errant,” she says gently, her breath steaming into the chilly air between them.

She falls pensive for a moment, and then her expression hardens a little: not with unkindness, but with purpose. “I have been thinking: come spring, Runar will be two, and I am sure he’ll be eager to go his own way. Once he is gone, I had a mind to do some travelling; there are some horses I would like to visit. Will you come with me, Errant?” Her red-tipped ears prick forward with hope.