There was so much to the stallion, that he doesn’t quite consider himself to be a desert king, not yet. While the sands rage and roll beyond the comfort of the shoreline and the nearest oasis, there are hoof prints dappled across their ridges, signs that the stallion has grown comfortable with his home once again… signs that the stallion has found this to be immensely safer than his birthplace (and would-be eventual throne and kingdom, had he lingered behind to see the rest of his tribe live on) and that he should be comfortable staying here for a long time.

This woman, she was born here- he can smell it on her. He imagines that, inside her slowly withering body and behind her hollow face, there is a fire that can only come from the desert born and bred. She stumbles, and he does nothing to help her, instead continuing his walk with a small backward glance to make sure she was still standing.

And they come to the oasis.

Even now, he admires the small pool of water, with it’s desert vegetation crowing generously over it, providing more than enough shade. Along with the grass that would have made a wonderful bed for the night, this makes him relish these comforts and reflect back on the harsh, flat, dead lands of his birthplace. “Feels like home.” He says in reply to Alexa’s question of the dunes. Despite his flat voice, there is a slight hint of affection for the sands in his reply, and he does not think to tell her that this is the first place he has felt at home in for a long time.

She continues on with her short story of the land, how it never changes, and he feels the need to correct her. “I find the sands change like the ocean, always shifting, never the same.” Each dune was like a unique fingerprint, rippled against the desert winds and baked under the sun, the hot sand moved very much so like the ocean, for that he is grateful.