The silver-haired woman leaves the main island. In the early morning hours before dawn begins to creep above the distant mountain peaks, Nyimara uncurls herself from her restless sleep. Since running into the newly appointed Minister of the Peak, the silver-haired witch cannot rid herself of the prickling thoughts that called to Salem and the arid desert sun. Despite finally reconnecting with Bjorn, reconnecting on a level that she had always dreamed of, Nyimara cannot deny that as much as the blue stallion has always called to her soul, so does Salem.
What had once been a cursed land to her, a desolate place of existence that only the hardiest could survive; Nyimara learned quickly to rely on her heritage and opened that part of her that had always been seen but never used. The desert was in her blood, far more than the frigid cold of the north that she so desperately wanted to love. It is only now that she sees… that she feels… it is Bjorn who breathes life into her desires for the ice and mountain air. Her soul would forever live with him but her heart summoned her back to the Desert.
Silently she bids the sleeping stallion farewell. She does not dare to rouse him from his slumber or risk breaking the silence with her voice. The urge to remain tucked against his side has a fierce hold on every fiber of her being. Yet the lithe queen slips away into the shadows anyway.
Bjorn asked for her forgiveness. The gentleness in his touch spoke louder than any thousands of apologies he could ever have offered and she had openly given it. For the first time in too many years, her frozen heart thawed to embrace him once more. Yet even though she promised to forgive him, the nagging voice in her mind still whispered it would happen again. Bjorn had promised her before he would never leave her behind, promised that he would share his homelands with her eager eyes and spend his days exploring the north when the urge to wander drove him to the seas. Yet again and again he had left, abandoned all that together they created only to return months and even years later with another’s scent draped across his strong shoulders. Love had driven her to jealousy and that jealousy led her on a dark and sinister path. This time, short and needed as it was, only felt as though she were taking steps backward instead of continuing forward. She had worked too hard and fought too long to completely abandon all that she had promised the gods and the islands. Rougaru needed to be avenged and any longer with Bjorn she feared she might forget that.
At least this time, it was her leaving him behind and not the other way around.
The swim to Salem was not nearly as difficult as the journey from the mainland back to the islands but still took more time than she would have liked. Crossing through the Lagoon would have made the journey quicker and no doubt cut a considerable amount of time from her swim but the silver-haired woman was not ready to risk a chance that her trespassing might be discovered. One bachelor was not of much concern to the chocolate mare… a pack of them was something else entirely.
Her swim carries her through the day and late into dusk. Had her son still been with her, no doubt she would have had to pause for a rest somewhere in Atlantis to allow the boy to catch his breath. Her swim however does not. She is restless to return to the Desert now, especially after learning from Marceline that Asmodeus, the handsome chimera stallion she had greedily molded into a formidable king was still securely holding onto her claim. She could only hope Cahyr had found his way back alone.
When Nyimara learned that the boy had not obeyed her command to stay put, she was agitated, to say the least. Countless hours had been spent roaming the main island in search of him but there had been no sign of his passing. None of the other horses she came across even remembered seeing the golden yearling which led her to believe that he had gone on ahead without her. Though it did give her more uninterrupted hours to spend with Bjorn, she did not completely rid herself of the natural motherly concern. Had he made the swim back to Salem safely? Did he remember the landmarks she had painstakingly drilled into his head over and over again? She prayed that was indeed the case but still….
A weight lifts from her as her hooves find purchase in the malleable sands hidden beneath the azure waters. Small, fluted ears perk forward amid the pale mane plastered against the curve of her chocolate throat as she savors the familiar cries of the gulls and pelicans as they drift on the warm currents of air. The sun was just beginning to set on the horizon, painting the red dunes in the fiery orange-red glow of dusk. Water sprays from her hooves as the desert-bred witch draws away from the ocean’s grasping fingers and onto the dry, hot sand. Paper-thin nostrils flare as the arid scents of home flood into her olfactory and once more remind her of just how much she had missed this place. It was hell to some, but to her… it was home.
After successfully ridding most of the salt-water sticky sand from her chocolate coat, the once-queen proceeds to the rise of Dunes that served as the gravesite for her father’s remains. The changing sands had long since hidden the sun-bleached bones from her view but instinct told her where they were found and though she pauses for a mere moment in passing, she does not linger long. She had things to do and uncovering the old wolf’s bones to tell him of her discoveries back home beyond the mountains would have to wait.
Despite the settling darkness, Nyimara finds the small herd easily enough. Relief floods through her veins when she recognizes the pale form of Cahyr with Rota at his side. At the very least she and Kara no longer had to worry for their safety; now the repercussions of leaving without being given the freedom to do so was another thing entirely and she would be certain they BOTH were aware of just how much trouble they were in.
But a movement to the east catches her attention. Asmodeus.
Even in the deepening twilight, Nyimara could not forget the striking chimera pattern of Solomon’s son. Dark eyes trace the defined muscles of his delectable figure for a moment in silence, savoring the opportunity to remind herself all that she had seen in him those seasons ago in the Cove when he had come as payment for Solomon’s treaty. He was meant to be a king, even before she had truly known it herself, Nyimara could not pass up the opportunity to have the stallion for herself.
Memory of Bjorn’s tender embrace is suddenly forgotten as the mask of desert queen once more fits perfectly into place across her exquisite facade. Long, chocolate-colored serpentine arches, her ashen labrums pressing tightly into the concave of her breast as a lyrical melody rings from deep within her throat. Lithe limbs propel her forward at an easy, dancing gait as she climbs the hill of rock and sand to approach his watchful gaze. Near-black eyes study his green-blue gaze from beneath the thick layer of pale lashes as she approaches. Unusually long, ivory whipcord lifts, settling across her hips like a monarch’s royal cape. A coy smile teases the corners of her dark lips as Nyimara tilts her finely dished head, ”Asmodeus….” she purrs, her lilted tones hanging onto the syllables of his name with seductive ease. ”I am glad to see you have not failed me.” she murmurs, taking a single step towards him, ”... not like Quinn.” she spits the name, cursing the illusions of grandeur that the dark stallion had promised. He had only wanted to seat himself on her coattails and benefit from the victories she alone achieved.
Pale lashes blink slowly as Nyimara lifts her small muzzle from its resting place, a single brow raised in curiosity. ”Have you any news in my absence?”