One thing that remained the same was El Aran’s sleeplessness, and since she could not close her eyes and sleep with any semblance of peace, she rested with wide eyes under the moon and let her thoughts drift. She had left the Islands and returned home after her guilt had become all-consuming, to see for herself whether her disappearance had worsened the state of the war in the desert or if her vanity was unprecedented and the fighting still continued. The seer had never considered herself important —not before Encantador, not before she’d walked these sands beside her partner and realized the amount of worth one horse could have when treated with respect— but she knew her very existence had been inciting enough for the Purebreds. They would use anything to justify their violence, and while the black mare understood that logically, she could not believe that her birth had not made things worse for the mixed herds.
Seers of mixed bloodlines were not supposed to exist.
El Aran closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. Each exhale sent a white plume streaming away from her muzzle that dissipated in the crisp night. It was the only sign that the dark mare was still alive, besides the slow expansion of her barrel as she breathed. The desert herds were still at war. She had done what she could to end that, vowing not to run any longer, but the fighting had taken a toll on her. The nightmares from her youth no longer plagued her, having been replaced entirely by the horrors she had left behind. There were no winners in war, El Aran knew. Only Huzur, the God of death, could claim victory over a corpse.
Hoofbeats on the earth broke her from her thoughts, and the black mare turned her attention to the dust in the distance as she opened her eyes. Perhaps it was a stallion, come to lord over her and attempt to wrest her authority away from her like so many others had attempted in the years she had lived here. The black mare flicked her tail, ever ready to defend herself with either her hooves or her tongue, and waited. The horse whinnied, and was soon close enough for El Aran to run a quick and critical eye over. She did not relax even when it was evident the newcomer was a mare, but the tension in her body spoke of readiness rather than suspicion.
"I am the lead mare of this Desert," El Aran said, responding to both the mare’s question and statement in one smooth sentence. Her consonants were clipped, the vowels of her words throaty. It was clear she was not a native of the Islands, but her accent was not as pronounced as it had been when she was a newcomer. The seer held the stare of the other horse for a long moment, noting the forward direction of her ears and the slight arch of her neck. There was no shine of the Akhal-Teke to her coat, nor the arrogance of an Arabian in her posture. The black mare shifted her hindquarters to give the mare a better view of the oasis that flourished behind her. "I am El Aran. If you are thirsty, you may drink before we speak."
el aran
Seer of Aşk. |