VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The world spun rapidly, shadows twisting and dancing around her prone figure in strange, erratic motions. Above, the sky was black and bleak and starless— an abyss that swallowed thought and purpose and pain. An abyss that she might have tumbled through endlessly, were it not for the dark shape that emerged from it. A pair of golden eyes, tousled strands of ebony and ivory tumbling down to cover her face like a shroud. The gentle caress of a muzzle along the curve of her neck, warm breath thawing skin that felt as cold as ice. And the familiar voice that had once led her from the depths of darkness, now hushed and twisted with agony. You are home, my skjaldmær. Please… please, do not give up.

Bacardi. Valka’s lips formed the syllables of his name, though the only sound she uttered was a garbled sigh. Then her Hersir pulled away, and her heart leapt desperately against the bone bars of its cage. Leaving her; turning away as Solomon had done only seasons ago. If she were strong enough, the Yakut would have pleaded, cursed, wept. Anything to hold him at her side. Anything so that she would not lie here alone, with the bitter tastes of blood and regret blending on her tongue. Regret not for her actions, but for the pain that they had inflicted upon him. Anyone can change, skjaldmær... but the sea is still the sea.

Trembling from cold and fear, she wondered whether the memory of those words would taste bitter to him now.

Suddenly he was beside her, his body forming a cradle that held hers at its center. As the seconds ticked past, heat began to flood her body, releasing the tension from her muscles and pooling pleasantly in the hollow of her belly. But even beneath the gentle swipes of Bacardi’s tongue— cleaning the blood that had dripped down from her torn ear— the shaggy mare remained frozen as she was. Terrified that even the smallest movement might convey rejection. Or worse still, the truth of her desperate need for this moment. For intimacy, and friendship, and something more. Something over which her mind had no control.

“Hersir.” This time her voice obeyed, though it was barely audible over the wind’s soft keening. And while there was sorrow and joy and even a fierce pride in Valka’s heart, it was guilt that she felt most strongly. Guilt for the old grief she’d glimpsed in his eyes, heard in his voice; a grief that she had unburied. Her voice hushed— scarcely more than a whisper— she continued. “ You were right. It's not in me to be anything but the sea. I— I’m sorry, Bacardi.”

There was more that she might have told him— that she had won, that a woman and her son now walked free. That her thoughts had been of the Bay, and the strength she’d shown born of his belief in her. But as memories of the battle filled her mind, a chill chased the warmth from her veins. What had she done? “Even in victory, I failed our home,” she confessed, longing to tuck her face behind the curtain of his mane again. To hide from the world, and the consequences of her actions. “They may come. For you, for Kesja.” A pause, while she inhaled shakily of the night. And then twisted around to meet those strange amber eyes with her own— as bleak and black as the sky still remained.

“Or for me, Bacardi.”