Meadow

Raksha had all but given up hope of ever seeing him again. Father. Bjorn. Though he had never been a steady fixture in her life, he had always been set apart. She adored her mother, Nyimara had always been there for her, trained her to be the best that she could be and despite her rough exterior, always she had been protective if not a bit stern. There was a change in their dynamics as of late, a change that Raksha did not necessarily like, but the more she dwelled on it, the more she understood it. Mother was simply trying to force her to grow up. Warduna was still a child and so she was given the freedom of rein but Nyimara expected more now of Raksha and whether she liked it or not, she was being forced to accept it. No more did mother coddle her with gentle words or warm eyes, no longer did she find comfort at the will of mother’s guidance, instead Nyimara looked to her with command, reminding her of her responsibilities as a queen of Salem and the requirements that that brought along with it.

The burden was a heavy one that the red woman was not quite sure she was ready to accept. At least not yet.

’Raksha… dottir’ the sound of her name draws her away from the thoughts that have planted her firmly in the recesses of her mind. Immediately chocolate tipped ears perk forward amid the tangled curls of her mane and pale blue eyes blink rapidly against the haze that had locked her so deeply into her mind. That tone. The voice. It was familiar. A voice that she had ached and longed to hear again. ”f..f..Father?” she stammers, her body growing rigid with insecurity once more. Was it the zephyrs playing tricks on her again? Was she being haunted by his ghost? Surely that could be the only answer. The last time she had seen him that day in the Arch, his face had been hard and fierce. He had been so full of anger and sorrow and hatred that he had hardly looked back at her as she watched him leave with eyes filled with tears. She wanted to go with him, and wanted to be at his side with Sigurdr and Skogsra as they disappeared within the thick mist and fog that hung heavily between the thick conifer trees. She wanted to be one of his chosen and yet he had not taken her. He left her behind.

She blinks again, her pale eyes widening as against all hope she turns at the sound of his nicker. Bjorn. Joy envelops her, filling her to the brim so that the tears once more gather in the corners of her eyes. Father. The word whispers in her heart and her soul as she stares at him in a stupor as he approaches and halts before her. For a moment she fears that he is nothing more than a memory made real by her longing. Perhaps she had really lost her mind or that the stress and strain of being forced into leadership at such a young age had finally caused her mind to rattle and loosen. Yes that must be it.

Deeply she inhales his scent, savoring the crisp cool flavors that cling to it still. Scents revived from years ago and once again she finds herself filled with the comfort that she had long been without. He closes the distance between them, his whiskered lips bumping against her neck. The warmth of his breath is comforting to her cool skin and yet she cannot help but to shudder and lean into the contact. Oh how she had longed to feel his touch once more. She blinks at him, finding her own pale eyes reflected in his own. A smile is on his lips as he asks how she is. Had he left it at that alone she might have found herself melting beneath the frozen ice of his gaze. ’... my child.’ Child.

”No…” she whispers, her voice soft and timid in the close space between them. Despite herself she reaches forward to brush her velvet lips against the coarse winter hairs of his smokey blue cheek. ”I am not a child anymore Da.” she murmurs, pain lingering on the undertones of her words. No. Those days were gone. Died even before she had truly had a chance to live them herself. Were she any other, perhaps she might have blamed him, maybe even at one time she did. Now, now, she only missed what could have been. What she knew was lost to her. A single fluted lobe tilts backwards as she gazes at him, lifting her chin from where it lingered against his skin and withdrawing her touch to study his face. He was older now, more hairs of gray lined his muzzle and lightened the whiskers around his lips. The lines of his face are more defined now, as though the years that grew her into the blossoming beauty had taken its toll upon him. ”You have been gone a long time…” she continues, her voice trailing off as she glances around him, wondering if somewhere beyond the reach of her vision, Skogsra and Sigurdr waited in the shadows. ”Where did you go?” she asks, her tones curious.