VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

A gust of cold air swirled around the trio, ruffling the skjaldmær’s shaggy ember fur and whipping strands of her pale mane across her face. I will not go again. Goose’s softly-murmured words were all but buried beneath the wind’s howl, but it didn’t matter. Valka knew. From the moment she’d seen her old friend— from the moment she understood that he was real— her heart was certain of a singular truth: he was home. And she was whole again. Or at least… as whole as she could be with the gaping wound left by Solomon’s absence and the silence that shouted his anger and hurt. As whole as she could be with the weight of Bacardi’s last words hanging heavy in her heart. When have I ever overlooked you? When have I ever tried to tame you?

Never. Her Hersir had always seen her, always freed her. And she— she’d made him her thrall, then worn him bare with the ebb and flow of her waters (of her doubts, her fears).

But these troubling thoughts were buried deep. On the surface, the small woman was attentive, even responsive. Nodding and smiling in all the right places, offering a hum of agreement to the buckskin’s emphatic ”Good!”. The skjaldmær and her battle brother proved themselves like-minded, too, where it came to matters of balance. But when she glimpsed his gaze following hers to the dark boy, the Yakut wondered whether Goose would approve of her methods as wholeheartedly. Turning the Wolf-King’s crimes against him— while satisfying— was where her fight for justice had been darkened and twisted into one of vengeance. And Rougaru’s silence felt less like peace and more like the calm before a particularly violent storm. From what she knew of the stallion, he did not seem the sort to suffer defeat quietly.

The danger from Tinuvel’s real wolves was more tangible, but far less concerning to Valka. While their herd lacked the overwhelming numbers of Solomon’s, they were still formidable enough that only the most desperate of predators would try to face them together. Their numbers had required the mare to keep a close eye on Falda, though, and to ensure that no individual kept vigil alone during the long hours of darkness. Some nights she shared the duty with Bacardi, others Drogon or Twinge or Vera— but the skjaldmær always watched, and fragments of weariness and strain had begun to peek through the front of her strength. With Goose’s return, perhaps that would change. Perhaps her friend could convince her to let her guard down for a few hours, especially with the promise that his son, too, would watch over their family.

Regardless, the golden male’s congratulations won the first true smile since their brief exchange regarding Loire. Just his presence served to ease her burdens and buoy her spirits. And to make Valka more grateful for the things that she had. With everything that had happened in the moments following her birth, the shaggy chestnut hadn’t celebrated her daughter’s birth nearly enough. But she celebrated it then, letting the warmth and kindness of a single word chase away both Tinuvel’s chill and the darkness of her doubts. Somehow, things between the queen and her Huskarl would turn out right. They had to. She’d lost so much since Goose’s departure, but his return made her feel as if the tides might be shifting again.

Or perhaps it was simply the stallion’s unfailing optimism wearing off on her.

Yes, it had to be. Because when her companion asked for a story that would share something he’d missed, Valka didn’t hesitate. Instead, she began to speak softly, her dark eyes following Bacardi as he moved towards the distant southern shore. “When I fought the Lagoon, my opponent was a tall, muscular creature who made even you look small. A single one of his hooves was the same size as my shoulder. But somehow— I don’t know how— I won. It was like… like his heart wasn’t in it. Like he didn’t want to fight. And I’ve heard rumors since that the Lagoon is trying to change, that its leaders want peace.”

With a light tip of her head, the Yakut expressed her uncertainty of these truths, and then spoke again. “Anyway, I was still badly hurt. I barely made it back here to the Bay, and Bacardi— he was waiting for me. He stayed with me, watched over me. And that was when I knew that he was already my Huskarl. Giving him the title— it felt like losing you again, but it also felt right. Because it was already his in everything but name. Because he was already my equal in some things, and my better in others.” Her voice dropped an octave, becoming a whisper that echoed the sibilant sigh of the waves. “Because I cared and care for him deeply, and it was the only way I could think to show him that truth. But Goose, I— I don’t think he understands.”

Pushing the breath from her lungs and closing her eyes, the pony-sized mare continued brokenly. “I mean, of course he doesn’t. Even I don’t." She inhaled shakily, dark gaze flitting open to find Goose's again. Searching for the comfort and peace that only a friend could offer.

“I only know that I don't want to lose him. Not like I lost Solomon.”