VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

They collided like two waves, rising momentarily above the turbulent sea of their emotions and into the sweet, simple air above. And for that single breadth of time, Valka remembered everything that had drawn her to the tobiano stallion, grasping like the curled-foam fingers of the waves at the skin of his shoulder. For that moment, she even relished the shackle that his jaws formed where they clamped down on the curve of her neck and the brief, burning ache of his teeth scraping over her skin. But as soon as they parted— as soon as the tangle of their bodies separated back into flame and ash— there was nowhere for the skjaldmær to fall but back into the present. Back into the conflicting, confounding feelings that pulled her both towards and away.

As if her heart was caught in the endless cycle of some tide; a tide to which Solomon was both moon and sun.

Even as she twisted away and spoke her part, Valka knew it was not entirely fair to blame him for the vulnerability that left her swaying, stumbling to remain upright and proud. But the Yakut condemned him anyway, because even the feeble peace that gesture offered was better than nothing at all. Because it was easier to live in a world where he had chosen to turn away from her, had chosen to abandon her. It was easier to live with the decision she’d made while clinging to that presumed truth than to scrabble around in the shadows of her mind for answers that she didn’t have. After all, she’d never known what Solomon truly was to her, nor could she understand what Bacardi had become in his absence. But none of that mattered if the champagne King didn’t want her. If her Huskarl was the last ally she could depend upon in a world filled with enemies. If—

And then I left. And there it was, the truth that even she’d been incapable of speaking, laid out as bare as the winter-touched steppes. The pain she'd felt in his absence was the most frightening thing Valka had ever faced. More frightening than the Lagoon’s golden general, whose teeth and hooves left marks she still wore. Standing on the precipice of that pain again, she sucked in a single breath and held it, willing the silence to hold. Willing Solomon to turn away, to walk away before he discovered exactly how weak she’d become. How weak she still was even beneath the reckless bravery of her recent deeds. Instead, the painted stallion turned about to face her, lowering his head until their gazes were level. Leaving her to drop her eyelids like hoods over the secrets that swirled in her dark eyes, though they could still be felt in the subtle quiver of her skin.

I wanted you to be mine then, and I damn sure want you to be mine now. I will claim you in as many ways and as many times as you let me, Valka. These words tore the last remnants of strength from her, and Valka slumped forward, breaching the last millimeters between her skin and his. Leaning against the broad plane of his forehead with her own, and releasing the breath she’d held in a thin, ragged sound. Feeling as if she’d been cleaved into two halves— one that insisted Solomon had come too late, and another that would wait for him until eternity claimed her. A time as long as she would have gladly waited to tell him the truth.

But she couldn’t— because of that part that was his, and always would be.

“Solomon—” the red skjaldmær finally began, tucking her chin tightly and then— only then— daring to open her eyes. Staring at bare earth and imagining the recrimination in his gaze, rather than witnessing it firsthand. “I—” —yes, she wanted to say. Wanted to seal the vow of being his, of consigning herself to the prison of his love. But she couldn’t do that, either. “In the fall, I— I crossed the Lagoon.” It was an excuse, true but no less hollow in its truth, and Valka did not linger on it for long. “And I— you know what they do, Solomon. I couldn’t let them claim me.” Another truth, this one even more hollow than the first. Because she had wanted to give herself to Bacardi... had surrendered gladly to the comfort and warmth and stability that her Hersir gave her.

“He was all that I had left,” the auburn mare whispered in a child’s voice, brown eyes squeezing themselves shut against the world that was crumbling beneath her hooves.

Crumbling and falling life a cliff into the sea.