The stillness stole more of her with each second that passed; with each degree the sky lightened. It commanded Valka in a way that nothing else had for too long. Soon she was little more than a boulder standing in the midst of the meadow — a landmark whose only movement was the windblown ripple of her shaggy red fur. After chasing her heart to the end of the world and back, the inertia felt good. It was easier to be still, easier to abandon the questions that had led her here, close her eyes, and pretend that she was nowhere at all.
Even this early, Valka shared the grassy landscape with a scattered handful of others — but they’d been steadfastly ignoring the strange creature in their midst, and she them. So when the Yakut first heard the soft scuff of hooves on frozen soil, she remained as she was, waiting for their owner to move on. Only when the familiar voice found her listlessly-drooping ears did the pale chestnut react, her dark eyes flickering open. Their depths were fierce and unreadable, but the tension that charged the air was palpable. Welcome back.
Solomon’s breath rose into the air as a warm mist that the skjaldmær could feel, even across the distance that divided them. It was impossible to tell whether her stout body listed toward that familiar warmth, and whether the flicker of longing in her expression was real or imagined. But one familiar with the nuances of her posture and expressions might find something buried beneath the impassive wall of her facade: fear. Grief. Hurt. All of the things that’d been there the last time she and Tinuvel’s King had faced one another from across a vast gulf of misunderstanding. All of the things that she had run from then, and wanted nothing more than to run from now.
I always hoped you would come back someday. The subtle flavor of confusion joined the fare of Valka’s emotions and she chewed the air once, unconscious of the gesture. Why should Solomon hope for her return when she’d betrayed both his trust and his heart, as he had betrayed hers? And why should she feel even a passing hope that those words might be more than a simple pleasantry — that they were as real as everything the tobiano had made her feel? Shaking her head in a gesture that might easily be mistaken for disagreement or denial, the shaggy mare sought to banish the chaotic tangle of her thoughts and emotions. It didn’t matter; none of it mattered. She shouldn’t have returned to the islands. She should have stayed with Kesja and Solvarr, she should have locked away her heart, she should have—
I never did say that I was sorry, for the way things ended, and the way I acted.
Without warning, something in the skjaldmær gave, and her stillness broke. Launching her small body forward, Valka drove for the stallion’s shoulder, reaching with her mouth to seize and twist its muscled curve. And this — this was what they were, what they had always been. This was the first way they’d spoken to one another; the only language by which they could make themselves understood. There was a delicious heat burning in the Yakut’s blood, half-adrenaline and half-passion, as the cold stone of her front fell away, exposing the raw emotion that lay beneath.
Anger. Anguish. Desire.
Stiffening her front legs, Valka relaxed her jaw (releasing her mouthful of flesh, if she had it), throwing her head back and baring her teeth again. But this time, her target was Solomon’s throat — and her bite would be gentler, amorous. If he permitted it, the chestnut would nip him a couple more times as her body came back to earth. Then she would lean into him heavily, burying her face in the sable-and-white veil of his mane to hide her tears from the world.
“Jævel,” the Yakutian mare spat through twisted lips, a note of affection softening the harshness of that single word.