VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

She didn’t know that she’d been holding her breath until her Hersir’s vow released it... and her. Parting her lips in a sibilant sigh, it did not form the vaporous cloud that it might have in the Bay’s colder seasons. But it hovered in the air between them nevertheless, a warm and nebulous thing not unlike the gratitude that filled the hollow cavity of her chest. With the inexplicable absence of Solomon to dwell upon, that part of her had been cold and numb for far too long. Now that she felt again, even the smallest slivers of emotion were felt so deeply that they almost hurt.

But knowing what it was to be truly empty, Valka suffered the brittle shards of her emotions gladly.

Bacardi’s words twisted deftly after the pause of their mutual silence, bringing the past that the stallion so rarely spoke about into the light. And though she didn’t want to seem too greedy for this unshared half of her companion — the skjaldmær was not one to pry into another’s memories — her small ears twisted eagerly towards the revelation that followed, even as her gaze remained focused out towards their herd. Herd, not herds, she recognized the distinction dimly even as she clung to the sound of the skewbald’s voice. It wasn’t clear when she had ceased to see them as separate families, but somehow her very existence had become irrevocably intertwined with that of this strange, gold-eyed male.

I learned long ago not even the strongest can deny their true nature forever. Was that what had happened to his mother, then? The bay tobiano had skimmed over the old wound as lightly as if it no longer pained him, but Valka knew from experience that no loss ever truly left you. And knowing this, it made the gift of her Hersir’s understanding even greater. Standing frozen beneath the gentle brush of his touch, the shaggy chestnut mare wanted nothing more than to offer him an exchange of equal value. But she had little to give, and nothing that was worth what Bacardi had given her. Recalling that she had believed him to be the lesser of their pair when they first met, the Yakut held a bark of bitter laughter within herself.

If that judgment had ever held true, it no longer did.

You have so much more you have to do, before anything is to ever claim you. Even in the strange melancholy of her thoughts, Valka’s mind was sharp enough to draw a deeper meaning from that sentence. Though his choice of words might have been unintentional, she wondered whether the anything that he spoke of included Solomon. Whether her companion might be as keenly aware of the painted King’s absence as she was — and judging the stallion unworthy of the claim he’d staked on her by this apparent indifference. But right now… right now, the possibility of an existence beyond that which she’d fought for was far too painful to consider. Pulling gently free of his touch — and softening the blow of this action with a warm smile — the red skjaldmær breathed easier once the veil of her forelock covered her eyes once more.

“I do not plan to go anywhere. But it is still wise to be prepared— and I am no less grateful to you for your promise,” she assured Bacardi. And then because there was still that sense of indebtedness; that need to offer something, even if that something was not nearly enough. “I...I will wait, regardless, until Kesja is weaned. There are some things in this world worth more than any victory.” Like the wisdom and acceptance he’d given her in words that still bloomed, warm and comforting, within her. The sea is still the sea. Words that stayed with her even after she pressed her muzzle to his shoulder in silent farewell, then turned to descend the bluff in search of her wayward daughter.

Ever as wild and willful as the sea she was.