VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

There had never been tenderness or affection in Solomon and Valka’s interactions—not even when they coupled on the Bay’s shore in the heated aftermath that had followed their battle. Instead, the Cove’s king and the Bay’s queen had always circled one another like two wary predators of the same race—sometimes clashing in a flurry of hooves and teeth, others bristling but keeping the most violent of their impulses in check. Though it was but a small gesture, the red woman’s gentle touch marked the first time that one of them had willingly crossed the careful boundaries set by their previous hostility—the first time that a hint of something more was revealed to lie beneath the guarded thoughts and terse conversations.

The skjaldmær had not intended to initiate anything more intimate than the companionable moment of silence that they shared in the seconds that followed. It was enough—too much, even—for Valka to close her eyes and allow Solomon’s familiar scent to fill her lungs. But when the curve of his muzzle pressed gently into her forehead, the breath was forced from her lungs in a ragged gasp. And when the champagne stallion withdrew, a strange sort of yearning rushed in to fill the empty space that exhale had left behind. Confused, the Yakut almost pulled away—but the unanticipated humility of Solomon’s next words stayed her.

Raptly, Valka listened as she was offered a glimpse into the enigmatic stallion’s past—every word of it inching them slowly closer to understanding. It did not surprise the pony-sized creature to hear that leadership ran in the tobiano male’s veins, but to learn that his sire’s sire was a tyrant… It would have been easy to dwell on Solomon’s faults with this revelation, but instead the chestnut found herself admiring how far he must have come to confess to his family’s flaws—particularly when Valka still understood the difficulty of this acceptance on a personal level. And when he chased such wisdom with a vow of determination to do better than his ancestors, pride blazed in the dark eyes that rose to meet his, and contentment in the smile that curved her lips.

And then vulnerability buried both.

It is not just my own well-being that I care about on this island.

Precious seconds crawled past while Valka processed the meaning behind these words—but when she understood, something deep within her shifted. The points of the Yakutian mare’s small ears disappeared into her mane as the truth found her, and the gentle press of her lips separated. Suddenly she was surging forward, her blunt teeth scraping against Solomon’s skin—not out of hatred or intent to harm, but from a passion that transcended the fleeting ardor that had brought Solvarr into being. A creature of limited emotion and even less expression, Valka was overwhelmed by the force of what she felt. By the blossoming warmth of the emotion within her—an emotion that wasn’t yet love, but could easily deepen into it. After a moment, the hard planes of her face even softened, and her tongue began to wash over the patches of flesh that her teeth had scored, but not broken.

Briefly, Valka recalled that her first impressions of the Cove's king had not been favorable. Nor had their journey from that point been easy—Valka resisted every step that brought her and Solomon closer. She had challenged Solomon, incited him, taken from him. Time and again, the stallion’s efforts to bring them closer had been thwarted by her stubborn nature—and yet he had persisted with a tenacity that surpassed her own. And in the end, he had won both her respect...and her heart.

Reality returned to her as slowly as snow drifting down to earth, and Valka was quick to pull away; to hastily restore the wall that had always existed between her and Solomon. But she could not take back the silent confession of her actions—or force her heart to reharden. She could only silently curse the islands, Solomon, and every other name that swam into her thoughts as she took two steps away from the painted king and let the cold blast of wind carry away the last lingering remnants of his warmth. If it were not for the raw ache of her heart, the skjaldmær might have even fled—but she could not bear to with the fear that it might be the last time she saw the pale stallion.

Instead, Valka stood with shoulders sloped and teeth bared—as if she could hope to intimidate the tender emotion that threatened to undo her back into dormancy.