Gabbar
stallion . arabian . bay . 14.3hh . 6
He tips one ear toward the sleek black mare. Her suspicion does not surprise him; the mares are two opposing breeds, after all. Enemies forever, allies on occasion. Valve’s warning is unexpected, however, and Gabbar lifts his chin to face her again. The stallion does not feel he should be wary of the Arabian mare: she has been utterly helpful and inexplicably kind to him, even deigning to touch him with her muzzle before they parted ways. He would not soon forget the heat of her breath against his skin, nor the soft flex of her lips on his shoulder, but he was not besotted. Now, had it been closer to the breeding season... He snorts and looks away, all too aware of how attractive he finds the mare beside him. It is wrong. But how can he not admire the competence displayed in her stance, or her shrewd intellect? Her vitality is alluring, as is her self-certainty, and her outward beauty is unparalleled. Valve is a prime example of perfection on four hooves, and Gabbar curses Uzay that he was not born an Akhal-Teke.
If he had been, though, it’s very likely the two of them might never have met.
Gabbar decides he should return to the Crossing to look for his charges. Time away from the ‘Teke will help him calm down and be reasonable next time they come together, and he will feel more productive even if he does not end up finding either of the mares he seeks. Movement is almost alway better than standing still. A moving target is much more difficult to surround, predict, or hit, and Gabbar does not intend to stagnate here in the Dunes while he waits for the Gods to deliver their next boon. Better he go looking for Iftikhar and El Halin.
He nods as Valve explains her intent. “May the Gods favor you in this,” he says. “I have my own search to continue. Drink the wind, Valve.” It is an Arabian goodbye, the equivalent of “safe journey” or “fast flight,” and betrays the intimacy the stallion feels between the mare and himself. By bidding her farewell in the way of his people, Gabbar has put her on equal footing with mares of his race —something many Arabians, male or female, would contest. But they have fought together, and well, and it feels wrong to him to treat Valve as if she is inferior when he knows she most certainly is not. His inclusion of her as an equal stems from deep respect, he tells himself, and not physical attraction.
The thoughts that run through his head are uncomfortable when he is with Valve, but Gabbar thinks it is healthy to be stimulated in such a way. If he is never challenged to think differently, how will he be anything more than an idiot breeder locked in the predictable and boring pattern of his culture? Gabbar does not wish to be just a breeder. He has ambitions of his own, all of which have been put on hold for the sake of two mares who will hardly be inclined to give him the time of day if he asks. Mares he should be looking for right now regardless of his personal opinion. The stallion shakes out his black mane and dips his nose in another nod to Valve before he strides forward and descends the dune. Keep moving, he reminds himself, and as he extends his gait into a trot and then a ground-eating lope, Gabbar empties his mind to enter the familiar meditation that allowed him to travel so many miles between his home and this land without straying from his cause.
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