VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Listening to her Hersir speak of his principles, it occurred to Valka how truly different he was— not only from her, but also from Solomon. Her head tipped curiously to one side as the bay male clarified that he had only fought to protect her, and not to press any claim. Though the skjaldmær did not doubt this was true, it made her feel both confused and conflicted. Had she only known how selfless his cause was, she would never have allowed Bacardi to join the fray. With nothing to gain from it at all, he’d put himself in harm’s way, and even professed that he would do so again. And there was nothing about her that was worth such sacrifice— not beyond what she might offer physically, anyway. Strong heirs. A strong ally. Even Solomon had fought her for his own benefit, and she would never fault the pale tobiano for that.

Violence was the only language that she understood.

The curious warmth that she had started feeling in the presence of Tinuvel’s King, on the other hand, was beyond her ability to comprehend. Something similar filled her chest now at the knowledge of how deep Bacardi’s devotion to her lay, at the gentle touch that he reciprocated. It was not a romantic sort of bond— not insofar as Valka was capable of, anyway— but a feeling of comfort. Of belonging. Her decision to choose a Hersir had been practical in its beginning. The herd had needed additional protection during Goose’s absence, and the painted bay had made a vow of loyalty. But time proved Bacardi to be more than the eyes and ears that he provided to keep their home safe. He was family, and she couldn’t imagine what she would do if tomorrow stole him from her side.

What will you do now? The Yakut broke at the same moment as her subordinate, pulling away from the touch that she’d been subtly listing into. Few knew how much she secretly craved these moments of closeness, and it was the way that Valka preferred. In any case, she tossed her head to sweep the pale forelock out of her eyes, and looked up at the stallion searchingly— as if trying to decide how much to reveal to him. And in the end, the red skjaldmær decided to be honest, forthright. This was her Hersir, and if she could not place her trust in him, then it belonged nowhere at all.

“I— I don’t know,” she responded, her voice wavering uncharacteristically. “When Solomon came, I thought that he…” Valka broke off abruptly mid-sentence, her creamy tail doing a brief agitated dance. “I thought that he would command it of me. He is my King, after all, and we already share a son. Solvarr went to live in the Cove a year ago, and I— I miss him.” Inhaling deeply of the warm autumn air, the pony-sized mare struggled briefly with the resurgence of emotions long buried before she continued. “I never wanted him before he was born, but after... they never explained how your whole world changes.”

As a father himself, she was certain that Bacardi would understand. Shifting uncomfortably too as the lesser wounds of her own battle made themselves known, she nodded her head once as if in agreement with some unspoken sentiment. “I had hoped for another child. But after today...perhaps it is not meant to be, Bacardi. Perhaps my tribe was intended to die with me.” There was a wistfulness in her voice when she reached this conclusion— grief and regret combining, but not for the reasons Bacardi might believe. She'd thought that Solomon finally recognized her strength— that he finally saw her as an equal.

But if today was any indication, nothing between them had truly changed.