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Valka

mare / thirteen / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Valka’s small body felt heavy, her limbs weighted with the lead of exhaustion. A burning ache razed through her muscles - and soon, nothing would remain of them but piles of ash. Soon, there would be nothing left to hold her upright. But for now, she stood facing the painted stallion, her russet coat tense and her dark eyes wary. The skjaldmær sensed the charge before it came, dancing aside on light hooves, then reaching up with parted jaws. But the tall male’s teeth were descending too, the blunt scrape of them ghosting over her cheek, seeking a hold, his warm breath parting the sweat-dampened strands of her shaggy coat-

She lashed out with a muffled squeal that tapered off into a groan. Head tilting towards the large body that loomed over her, teeth clipping shut on the air (or flesh) that marked the very limits of her reach. A heartbeat later Valka realized that she was lying flat on the pebbled beach, a vulnerable target for her opponent’s hooves. With panic fluttering in her chest the Yakut rolled over, scrambling to get her stout legs back beneath her. At any moment she expected the sharp bite of teeth, the crushing blow of hooves. And even when they did not come, she whirled on her foe with bared teeth and flattened ears, the breath hissing from her lungs in a harsh sound of warning. Whether the stallion’s hesitation was an act of mercy or a result of ineptitude in battle, she had no intention of repaying it in kind. She would flay the skin from his stinking flesh. She would- she would-

Oh. The red mare deflated like a cornered cat that had escaped to safety, its fur returning to lie, sleek, against its skin. Yet even as the tension drained from her body, there remained a wariness in the depths of her dark eyes. There was wistfulness too, of course, but it was not enough to bring her forward; not enough to close the distance between her and Solomon. Instead, head tipping gently to one side, Valka drank in the sight of the familiar King as greedily as any creature that was dying of thirst. Though she had not intended to reunite with Solomon in death as had surely happened, there was no room in her heart for regret. And suddenly, it was not enough to simply look at him. Whatever power the spirits might gain over her for a single touch, they were welcome to it.

After all, how much of her could possibly remain that Solomon did not already hold?

Stumbling forward, she pressed her face into the hollow where the stallion’s neck met his chest. Felt his warmth flow into her, inhaled his scent. And uttered a curse into his skin, the harsh notes of her voice a stark contrast to the softness of her body. “Rævhull,” she growled without true conviction, trembling each time his breath washed over her. Had she believed in concepts such as heaven or hell, Valka would have attributed both to this moment.

As it was, she believed in neither, and thought no further than the familiar syllables of his name.

“Solomon…” the skjaldmær murmured, giving herself over to his power completely.