Common

The ebony marwari mare welcomed the girl into her embrace, curled around her and blew a warm, soft breath near the trembling filly’s ears, pressed her lips to the arabian’s delicately dished face in the affectionate manner of a mother kissing a child. With care, she shifted her position, guiding the girl gently with a delicate nudge, so that the young Arabian was tucked out of the wind on Naz’s leeward side. “You are safe now,” Naz sought to reassure in her companion’s native tongue, her words low and lyrical. “I won’t leave you.” She fell silent at the younger desert mare’s words, and dipped her head in recognition of what had been said.

It was not for Naz to agree or disagree with the arabian’s claim – after all, how could any of them know for sure that they weren’t all part of something far greater. It certainly didn’t seem like mere coincidence that they’d found one another – that it had been Naz herself, fluent in the newcomer’s language and driven to protect and nurture, that had stumbled upon the greying young mare in her moment of great need.

“These are the Islands that are called Lost. Many find themselves washed upon these shores. It is a strange place, unlike any other. So many opposites exist in a delicate balance here,” the marwari explained, offering up all she knew by way of answer. “Where did you come from?” she asked softly, in the vain and unlikely hope that she would have knowledge of the place the younger mare named or described.

Though young herself in comparison to many, Naz had lived a full life and travelled rather widely. Her mind was keen, and she would freely admit without arrogance that she was extremely clever. Some were blessed with great strength, others with wisdom, and yet others with courage. Naz had never been one to take her acuity for granted, nor was it something she had a right to boast about. After all, it was not by her own will that she was privileged in this way; it had been given her since birth.

“It may not be your home, child, but when you are ready I can take you somewhere warmer, where you will feel a little more at ease.” The island of Salem, while similar in geography to the likes of Naz’s homeland and likely that of the slighter equine beside her, was still very much unique and vastly different to any of the desert plains on the mainland. Only a desert horse, born and bred, would be able to understand this. It was something about the way the wind sung over the dunes, and the way the sand felt different beneath the hooves. “I am called Naz,” the marwari murmured into the girl’s ear, standing still and solid beside her – a support and a shelter from the wind.