Meadow

Raksha wanted to believe him.

The pain that clouds his blue eyes, the sorrow that etches itself upon his whiskered lips, she wanted to believe all of it. There was a tiny voice in her mind that whispered it was not real, that she could never believe what it was he said or trust him to be there for her now when he had always come up short in the past. She wanted to believe that the careful consideration of his intense gaze was meant for her alone. Wanted to believe that he was memorizing the curves and contours of her face to replace the memories of the past when she had been nothing more than a young girl standing alone on the shores of Tinuvel. It was that voice that wanted to hate him. That small voice wanted to scream at him for taking Sigurdr and for taking Skogsra. It was that voice that begged to know why she had not been good enough but was also afraid to know what that answer might be. Did he see weakness in her as mother did? Was she merely the black sheep of their family of strong warriors? Was it so wrong to want peace and prosperity and love over war and violence?

She can see past the waves of regret that break over him, see beyond the hurt in his eyes as she questions his existence and the reality of his touch. She hears it in the whisper of his words when she tells him that she is no child anymore. Small ears perk to catch the faint breath of his words. Words that cause her own breath to catch in her throat and the beat of her heart to quicken within her breast. How long has it been? How many times had she prayed to hear those words come from his lips or feel the tenderness in his eyes of blue that mirrored her own. Father. It was hard to believe it was real and yet she found herself desperate for answers.

He speaks again, this time answering her searching words with as simple an explanation as he can manage. Absently she finds her small head nodding along, her own thoughts having processed as reasonable conclusions of the same thought pattern. She told herself it was her heart and her ties to him that explained this, that somewhere deep beneath the exterior of her skin that resembled her mother, she knew he had gone back to the homelands of his old stories. But she did not expect to hear the news of her relatives. Vaguely she recalled him mentioning her aunt before and on occasion his father too was the source of much entertainment in childhood stories. Hearing of his slow descent into madness caused her eyes to darken with sympathy and heartbreak. Though she had never met the stallion before, the stories that she remembered had him being a great warlander and Raksha finds herself unable to resist the urge to touch Bjorn’s smokey cheek in sympathetic pity. Crystal tears clung to the corners of her pale eyes as she inhales a deep breath, surrounding herself with the comforting scent of his skin. ”I’m sorry Da…” she murmurs, her tones a barely audible whisper against the stillness that enveloped them now. Long dark lashes blink slowly over her depthless ooids as Raksha draws herself back to meet her father’s gaze, a timid smile ghosting across her lips. ”I wish I could have met him too... “ she breathes softly, giving her small dished head a shake to rid the painful thoughts of solitude and death from her mind. ”But at least your stories will keep him alive. I will never outgrow them. Perhaps….” she begins her words stuttering as they hang in the throat. She wanted to tell him… wanted him to know but it was not the best time. Not now. Maybe later she would tell him that she hoped he would continue to share the stories with her own child. Maybe later.

But as with all peaceful moments, it is not meant to last. The familiar scent of Nyimara floods her nostrils and immediately Raksha feels herself withdrawing within. Shoulders square as the mahogany mare slides into place beside her. Gentle eyes glance up to her mother as a welcoming smile curves across her lips. ”Ami….” she murmurs, arching her finely sculpted neck to allow her ashen muzzle to bump companionably against her mother. Though she did not always agree with Nyimara’s ways, she had not abandoned her daughter, even if Raksha never did much to please her. The time for such joyous news was not here. Every part of her swore that Nyimara would be far from happy to know that she was to be a grandmother anytime soon. Later. Perhaps she would even let her child tell the silver haired woman, or even Sule though that idea was best kept quiet. Mother despised Solomon with a passion and she highly doubted that there would ever be a moment where she found pleasure in knowing their bloodlines were now intertwined. Well, not quite yet. She still had some time left to go and perhaps she might find the best way to tell both her parents.

Today was not that time.

Mother’s snarky words draw her own ears back into the curling tendrils of her chocolate mane as Raksha turns to her mother in surprise. ”Mother!” she snaps, her voice strengthened with displeasure. She had just gotten father back, she was not about to lose him again to mother’s snide remarks or rude behavior. Desperately she glances at Bjorn, her pale eyes pleading for forgiveness that she knows will never leave her mother’s lips. ’Da… please…” she murmurs, her tones weakening as the thought of having to watch him walk away again begins to grow more and more real.

Nyimara slides against him with all the sultry power and prowess that she had learned over the years. Raksha resisted the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation and finds herself instead clenching her jaws together as Bjorn rises to the challenge. His tone is harsh, harsh enough to cause her own skin to flinch and her gaze to divert as he mentions Siobhan and Aranck. Raksha had not been completely blind to what happened in the Arch but she did her best to push those memories from her mind and instead focus on the good memories of her time with Bjorn and playful games with Skogsra and Sigurdr. Like a deer frozen at the sight of a predator, Raksha finds herself immobile in the sight of her parents company. What had once been a joyous occasion now tense with fury and anger. ”Please….” she whispers, her body shivering as she takes a step backwards. ”D...don’t fight… please” she pleads, drawing herself around the unborn child that flutters within her in hopes that she might find some sort of strength to face the demons before her....