VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

In a show of this world’s ironic—and cruel—sense of humor, Valka’s greatest act of mercy was met with more condemnation than any atrocity she’d ever played part in. And though she longed for nothing more than to respond to the stallion’s epithets in kind, the chestnut woman quelled the urge and rode the gentle swells of his struggle in sullen silence until they had passed.

Lying draped over the scarred warrior’s body was not at all like the pleasant sort of snuggle a pair of lovers might share—though the skjaldmær knew little of either. Seconds trickled slowly past, building into minutes in a manner not unlike the snow that sifted down upon them. In the same way, her discomfort grew from the occasional twinge of protest to a dull, persistent ache and then blades of agony that licked through her stiff joints like fingers of fire. Had she not been so determined to thwart the will of whatever common enemy that they shared, the Yakutian mare might have given up and surrendered him to the anesthetizing embrace of the snow. It would be a slow death, she knew, but not a merciless one—little though it should matter to her whether or not one of his kind suffered.

But Valka had never been one to bend easily—not even in this newfound softness that plagued her. So she clenched her jaw and suffered in silence, accepting the cost of her pain as the price of snatching a life from the gods’ jealous hands. By then, she was all but certain that the Icelandic would recover from the renewed strength evident in the steady thrum of his heart and the shivering of his skin. By then, she had begun to grasp the long-reaching consequences of her actions—for she could hardly spare the ormr only to cast him back into the unforgiving sea. Whether she had intended it or not, this creature had become her responsibility to protect as much as any other member of the Bay. The moment that she had lain down beside him, whatever rivalry they’d once shared had ceased to matter. And though there was no affection within her for him either, Valka could no more turn from him than she could abandon the members of her new family. Not even when he broke free of her grasp, struggling a few steps away and then turning back to sneer at her in revulsion.

Why?

That the soft rasp of the golden-brown stallion’s voice should echo her own sentiments so precisely might have given the Yakut cause to laugh—if she’d been in a mood for such humor. As it was, the skjaldmær’s mood had darkened so considerably that she fought the urge to charge at him again. Shaking the dusting of snow from her orange fur instead, Valka rose into a less-than-graceful stand, wincing as the flow of blood returned to extremities that had all but gone numb in its absence. Paying as little heed to the Icelandic as she might the gnats that made their appearance in the damp warm days that preceded Tinuvel’s summer, she took inventory of her discomforts and determined that they were nothing motion could not resolve. And only when this was complete did she turn to the white-splattered male with a twisting of ears and a snarl of her own. “Death is too easy,” she spat at him—almost convincing herself of the hatred in her voice. “Do you think I did not wish for the same when my people were lost? But the gods denied me, and now I have denied you.”

Vengeance was the answer that this ormr would expect; the one he was most likely to accept out of any. So while it might be more truthful if she were to tell him that she didn’t know what had prompted her to take that first step, Valka did not. She held onto the secret of her kindness because it was simpler to hide behind the face of hatred than it was to confess to the doubts and regrets that she harbored behind the crumbling walls of her heart. Let him believe that his purpose on this earth was to suffer—as she already had—with the knowledge that there was no going back.

Whether or not his tribe still lived, they were as lost to him now as her own had been in death.