VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

You are not to blame. A ghost of the shaggy mare’s smile returned in answer to these words, but it didn’t reach her eyes…not even when Goose echoed his son. Valka would not— could not— accept the absolution that the two stallions offered. Not knowing that there was more she might have done to prevent their heartache. But the skjaldmær also understood that it served no purpose to linger in regret and remorse; to live so deeply in the past that both present and future lay forgotten. Loire was not here, but Valka knew that the roan mare would have wanted her to look after her family in her absence. And she would. There wasn’t a force on this earth— whether wrought by nature or her own kind— that could tear them away from her side again.

Far more than their forgiveness, the gentle affection father and son extended was the greatest comfort that they could offer. The red woman could still feel her skin tingling with warmth where each of them had touched her, and a part of her even wish for more. When she’d first come to the islands, Valka was wild and wary and withdrawn, but now— now there were a select few who had won their place in her heart and at her side. Such sentiment came with a cost of its own, however, and that cost was her peace. Solitude was unbearable now, and even distance was painful. Losing Solomon, withdrawing from Bacardi— it left the Yakut feeling frail and hollow, like a reed standing at the edge of a long-dried creek. It left her hurting, and even time seemed incapable of fully mending her heart’s wounds.

The soft rumble of Goose’s voice broke through her thoughts, and Valka focused on it as an escape from their descending darkness. At the buckskin’s curious prompt, the skjaldmær’s head tilted gently to one side, and she idly readjusted her limbs. How could she summarize the seasons that had passed in a way that would make sense to someone who hadn’t lived them? Even now, there were still things the chestnut herself couldn’t understand. Like the soul-baring moments of intimacy she’d shared with her Huskarl, and the gnawing hunger that had filled her since they’d broken apart.

“Not much has changed,” the Bay’s leader began, her gaze flitting out across the comforting familiarity of their home. The stallion’s second question was far easier, and so it was that one she chose to answer first. “There’s been peace— mostly. I forced the Lagoon to answer for their crimes, and Rougaru to answer for his. They’ve been quiet since.” Her dark eyes lingered on one particular young male amidst the herd; the one who’d named himself Drogon. She had yet to decide what to do with the Wolf-King’s pound of flesh, but perhaps Goose could offer some of his wisdom on that situation— in due time. There would be hours to talk about everything that had transpired; days to make up for the years they’d lost.

For now, she wasn’t ready to reopen the deep wounds of her regret.

“Bacardi is my Huskarl now, and protects the herd as my equal,” Valka continued as indifferently as she was capable of, though her voice broke on the syllables of the bay stallion’s name. “Tinuvel is united, so it’s mostly the sea that we watch. And the wolves, who have grown numerous and bold of late.” She watched the mountains to the southwest as well, but made no mention of that particular vigil. It was a burden all her own, and one that had far more to do with the persistent ache of her heart than the safety of their home. Casting her gaze in that direction now, the skjaldmær glimpsed a small dark figure curled where she’d left her in the grass, and her sorrows were briefly lifted.

“I— I have a daughter now as well,” the ember-colored mare revealed abruptly, wondering whether her friend would be surprised by that news. “In time, I hope that she’ll step forward to protect the Bay. Unless you’re returning home with the secret to eternal youth, of course. In that case, I’ll be happy to shield our home and families forever.” Again the faint warmth of humor was glimpsed in Valka’s eyes— but also a wistfulness; a yearning. It was difficult to imagine what she would do when the effects of time forced her to surrender her only purpose. Almost as difficult as it was envisioning a world in which she’d never found her way to the islands.

In that world, she would’ve never lived a day without purpose— trading it instead for a life without the love she’d come to know with Goose and Solomon and Bacardi.