Meadow

He offers his olive branch, and while she says nothing - offering neither absolution nor condemnation - she does plenty. Valka had never been easy for him to read, and he was years out of practice, but he hungrily observed every nuance of her expression. Every minute twitch of her brow, narrowing of her eye, flaring of her nostrils. He saw it all, the fear and the longing and the denial.

Mutely, he watches the small pony mare shake her head as if brushing aside his welcome, and tries not to let the sting of rejection burrow too deeply into his heart. Told you, the voice sang into his ear insidiously, amusement coiling in the tone. Still, he could not stop the apology from rolling off his tongue.

Solomon still could not understand the decisions she'd made that sein herason; the how or the why of it all. No matter how hard he stared at the pieces and how they logically connected together , his heart always rebelled at the conclusion, at the realization that Bacardi held a piece of her heart too. That, perhaps, he always had, even before Solomon had awakened to the realization of what Valka meant to him. And while Solomon still struggled with it all, he had learned a fundamental truth while she was gone. Having her here, whether it be angry at him, or distant from him - even when she was unreachable, untouchable, unattainable - was monumentally better than not having her at all.

The tobiano's emerald eyes widened as she lunged at him, and he began to instinctually shy away from her surprise attack before the realization dawned, hard and fast. He shifted his weight again, throwing it back onto the side that she approached from, tanking the hard pinch of her teeth as they connect and rip at the muscle over his shoulder. A hiss of pain escaped him, but he did not try to pull away or avoid her attack. There is a release here, in this fight. Even if it fixes nothing, even if it makes it worse, it will at least be something.

He reached for her in return, seeking the ridge of her withers where he might be able to brush away enough of her thick mane to return the favor, to press his lips against the downy fur where he had once boldly thought to claim. She is faster than him, slipping away beneath his grasp and twisting, rising to her feet to punish him again, enveloping his throat in the warm prison of her mouth. Something inside of him broke free then; not quite a dam - he'd never pretended he didn't care for her, that he didn't love her, had never truly locked those feelings down, just hidden them, pushed them away - but some backlog of reservations, some rotten detritus of his pride that had long throttled him, was released by her action.

A primal groan rose in his throat, and he dragged in a rough breath, twisting only when she freed him so that he could run his own muzzle over the familiar plush of her thick mane, searching through the coiled strands until he could try and brush his muzzle over the narrow ridge of her withers, where he had once thought to place his claim. However, as she curled into him, murmuring her soft curse against his neck, he lifted his head, hooking himself around her to try and bring her closer to him while chuckling softly, the sound more rumble than noise.

A moment passed before he spoke up again, his voice a soft murmur. "Does this mean you forgive me?" His heart hammered at the audacity of his words, and he didn't know if she would take them with the intent that he had delivered them. Words had never been their shared language, but he felt like he needed to say something so that they could open that door. As much as the scraping of teeth and the thudding of hooves could convey much of their feelings, there remained some things that need to be said.

Things Solomon both needed to say, and needed to hear.

Solomon