VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

With introductions made and discussions of politics underway, Valka braced herself for the dark buckskin’s departure. Though she struggled to grasp the source of those emotions, the skjaldmær understood that her presence inspired silence and discomfort. It wasn’t quite intimidation— their distance lacked any signs of true fear— but rather something she had no word to describe; a sort of deference she’d only seen (and felt) on two rare occasions. But the small red mare didn’t see herself through the same lens that a stranger or even a herdmate did. She didn’t view herself as a leader, and certainly not a monarch. She was only a protector, and held no interest in governing the Bay’s residents beyond recommendations made for the sake of their safety.

To Valka, she was no more— and perhaps even less— important than the woman who stood by her side.

For that reason, this stranger’s answer was far closer to her heart than he could have ever known. I was never born to lead this place. Neither was she, but— but in the absence of any clear direction, it was evident the Bay had begun to falter. Zevulun’s words recalled a place well-populated enough to be a kingdom in its own right; to have a Queen from an established line of succession, and guards appointed to defend her. Valka’s chest ached at the mention of that role. She ached for the simplicity of that life again; for the certainty of what to do in the commands that she was given. Without anyone to navigate the tumultuous waters of life’s trials now, it felt as if the Yakut was simply… drifting. As if she was riding the waves of destiny and her own nature, and waiting to see where they would bring her.

The pale stallion continued as the skjaldmær resurfaced from her thoughts, confessing— with evident grief— that the life he’d known here was well behind him. That he and his sister were lost to one another, and that there was no returning to that past. Again, she felt empathy stir beneath the neutral expression that she wore, and exhaled her breath in a soft, stuttering sigh. More than once, Valka had thought of returning to the himinbjorg and picking up the pieces that were left in her tribe’s wake. But that chapter of her life was closed, and to turn back to it now would mean tearing out all the pages that had followed. And while she’d part with some gladly, others would be painful to lose; like tearing out pieces of her own heart. Goose. Solomon. Bacardi. And the children she’d have never otherwise been given.

No, Zevulun was right— there was no leaving what she’d found.

With a tone akin to a verbal shrug, the shaggy chestnut broke her silence. “I am no Queen,” she offered simply, tilting her head back enough to meet the blanketed male’s gaze. “Only a skjaldmær. A— a protector, you would call it. And so long as they are no threat, our kind are free to come and go from this place as they choose.” There was a note of gentleness to her voice when Valka continued, but it was well-buried beneath her affected stoicism. “But if it’s an alliance you wish, then I accept under one condition. When you come to visit, I would like to hear more of the Bay’s past and its Queen. And in return, perhaps I can tell you more about Tinuvel as it is now.”