VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The Bay was silent; a graveyard from which frozen bones of earth jutted like headstones. Beyond the skeins of mist that rose from the shaggy mare’s nostrils, the world was still as well. Breathless beneath the moon’s soft silver gaze, broken from the whole it was by day into fragments of light and shadow. In the deepest of these dark seas, Valka knew that the small herd she was bound to protect slumbered— but she did not move to join them. Instead, the red Yakut circled the rim of that pool endlessly, staving off the cold that sunk towards her bones in motion. And more. The cloud of fears and doubts and regrets that had circled her since Solomon’s departure was also lifted by action, even one as mindless and mundane as walking.

But it could not silence the memories.

After a time it seemed as if the wind’s sigh chased her, carrying feathers of snow and the echo of syllables spoken in a familiar voice. When? When, Valka? And the skjaldmær snarled at those words, baring her teeth at the world. At the softness that had all but ravaged her heart, at the ache that pulsed through her chest. At the tangle of emotions that she no longer cared to untwine— not now, and not ever. Though the courtship of Tinuvel’s King had made the world feel less hollow, ultimately the costs of it had proven too high. It was not in the pony-sized creature to surrender herself to another so completely. It was not in her to be Solomon’s, anymore than she had been capable of belonging to Rougaru or Ironclad. What she wanted— what she needed— wasn’t someone to claim her, but someone to claim. But it was too late to matter. The wall around her heart had risen again, built of iron this time instead of stone.

Somehow the cold had found her anyway, spreading from the chestnut’s lungs into her belly, and then seeping into her limbs. Valka’s supple strides slowed, her legs moving stiffly, woodenly. Finally she stumbled to a halt, her dark eyes drifting absently into the forest. Her small ears cupping forward to catch the soft crunch of hooves in snow, and then twisting back into the creamy tangles of her mane. A heartbeat later, the ring of a familiar call tugged them forward again— after seasons of silence, the Inlet’s new ruler was finally stepping forward. But why now? And what could Bjorn want from her? Letting the tide of her curiosity tug her gently forward, the Yakutian mare left the silver tundra behind her and crept into the black forest. Stopping a body’s length from the grullo stallion, Valka watched the motionless dance of his silhouette, the swirl of emotions in her eyes indecipherable.

“Bjorn,” she greeted the sabino simply, head tilting lightly to one side.

And then she waited— silent as the world that surrounded them— for whatever the future might hold.