VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

In the days that followed the fierce bloodshed on the Bay’s shore, the chill of autumn deepened. Valka welcomed the colder temperatures with relief, as well as the snow that followed— though the delicate flakes dissolved nearly as soon as they kissed the earth. So much of her world had shifted that it was a comfort to know there were forces that would always exist beyond the influence of her kind. Forces that no amount of savagery or kindness could change. But in the solitude and clarity that she regained with the ebb of her hormones, the skjaldmær reflected often on these three aspects of strength. On Ironclad, and his ridiculous notion that force alone might serve to win her respect. On her Hersir and the inexplicable offer that he had made— the vow to yield himself to her in everything, asking nothing in return save her own happiness.

And on Solomon, who— whether in conversation or combat— incited a passion in Valka that neither Bacardi nor the Inlet’s ruler could hope to match.

Unlike his younger ally, the tobiano King had not attempted to overpower the Yakut. Nor did he seek to sway the stocky chestnut with promises. In short, Solomon asked for nothing, offered nothing— and in return, Valka gave him everything. She gave him respect, yielding her authority to his. She gave him her heart, though the gentle warmth that filled it was beyond her ability to express. And she gave him herself— surrendering to the tall stallion’s claim both willingly and wholly.

After, the skjaldmær returned to her home in the Bay and resumed the pattern of her life as if nothing at all had changed. But there was no reversing her growing affection for Solomon, or her higher regard of Bacardi’s soft brand of strength. Nor could she erase the bitter contempt that she felt for Ironclad, who from the beginning had made his own clear. And so when the wind carried his scent and call from the Bay’s northern edge, Valka’s body could not help but to tense, her small ears flattening into the pale tangle of her mane. Whether the young male’s intentions were peaceful or not, she had no intention of suffering his presence near her herd— particularly not in the fall.

Descending from her favored bluff in a series of reckless bounding strides, the fluffy red mare stalked purposefully in the direction of the Inlet. The greying stallion awaited her at the border between their homes, his strange pale gaze unreadable as he watched her approach. What did he want? Valka’s wariness was evident in her dark glare, the brief upward curl of her lip, and the agitated dance of her tail. She and Ironclad had not associated with one another often, but the few encounters they’d had did not endear her to the self-proclaimed prince. And so offered no greeting, but instead stood silent and tense— waiting for her northern neighbor to state his intentions.

Whatever they might be, she was prepared to prove herself in battle time and again until Ironclad learned that respect was not something one could inherit, but something they must earn.