VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The painted bay’s head lowered until skjaldmær and huskarl stood as one; until he was everything that she saw and felt and heard. For a blissful moment, there was nothing else. Nothing but the dark pool of Bacardi’s pupil limned by the golden ring of his iris, the fluttering rhythm of his heart, the hushed murmur of his voice. You honor me with more than I deserve. A denial surfaced from deep within the mare, rising as far as her lips before it was stilled by the unexpected thrill of the stallion’s touch. His muzzle traced the faint curl at their edge before traveling upwards, following the line of her jaw and the curve of her cheek before it finally plunged into the wild sea of her pale mane. A single syllable escaped there, humming low and pleasant in the small points of her ears. I— He— what? Valka’s breath stuttered to a halt as she waited and listened. But if there was meant to be more, the words never came.

Instead Bacardi pulled away, his distant gaze restoring the suffocating world they’d left behind.

Did the waves feel this same sharp ache when they fell away from the Bay’s pebbled beach? If they did, it was no wonder they rose time and again, even knowing that their reunion was doomed to brevity. Valka would have done the same gladly to reclaim the peace she’d felt seconds before— if she’d only known how. But as she stretched forward to touch her muzzle to the jagged scar of white that started halfway down his neck, Bacardi shifted positions, his skin dancing just beyond her reach. And beneath the weight of his gaze alone, the skjaldmær might have found the courage to press forward— but the too-formal words that followed forced itself between them like a third body. The burden of their duties and obligations given physical form. The burden of her past, and the fears that’d been birthed in its wake.

With a sudden easing of pressure, the red woman was abruptly reminded of a different sort of birth… and the life it’d brought forth. Twisting quickly around, she glimpsed a dark brown flank as it disappeared beneath her body, and felt the filly brush the low hang of her belly as she curled up beneath the bodies of her mother and father. No longer capable of fleeing from her vulnerability, Valka found herself forced to face it instead— and turned back to the tobiano with a hesitant sort of resolve. “Bacardi—” she began, a wistful yearning in those syllables that had nothing to do with his mention of visits to the Peak. Right now, she could see no further than the smile and gaze that were different from what’d they been before he turned away; detached.

And it was difficult to figure out which Bacardi was real— was it the one who spoke to her now? Or the one who’d said nothing— and yet somehow, everything— in the searing warmth of his touch?

“Bacardi—” the Yakut echoed after a brief pause, grasping for the flighty tendrils of her thoughts. “What you said... it isn’t true. You deserve more than I’ve offered here, but I—” A fist closed around the mare’s throat, squeezing it shut. During the struggle to free herself, she fell silent, the line of her lips quivering with unspoken words. Squeezing her brown eyes shut, Valka inhaled deeply and finally managed to continue. “—I can’t give it to you.” Her voice had fallen to a whisper, so hushed that it was almost a prayer. “If I could, Bacardi, then I would. But there’s nothing left of my heart, and I— I’m not even certain it was there to begin with.”